Where roses gather, kings will sing of green embroidered sleeves
as petals pool, beneath the spool, where maidens’ wishes weave.
Where roses gather, thorns will rise as liquid glass burns red
and coats of arms wield empty charms, while blossoms brand their dead.
Where roses gather, girls will tear fresh love-me-nots in spring,
while poets praise the paling gaze that stirs their hand to sing.
Where roses gather, weeds will rise to choke the tender flesh
of hands that reach for whittled wounds that carve a cedar crèche.
By the spheres that mark the years, so low the hornets hum
to usher in the lullaby, on wings that sting these drums.
Where roses gather, blissful brides will cast a single bloom
onto the soil, where April’s toil, will sprout a floral spume.
– Amy Struthers