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Death of a Rose By: Dorothy Marie Koveal on 10/21/2001; 5:38 PM As I stroll down the damp, gray walk, my nose towards the ground, I turn my face to the sky and smile. Trees now barren and naked in view; zephyrs caressing the brown crumbling grass. I continue on past the black iron gates- Careful not to wake the sentry- into the convolutions of my memory. I approach a lake- nothing more to the eye- but to the heart a damned sight. A sight no longer virgin to the tragedy- the death of a Rose. Red petals spilled across the water, floating, spread by the undulations. The stem now limp and sinking- Color shifting leaves drift down behind, sepals plead the sky for a savior. Such a stain in the memory- And forbidden by the weary sentry- the death of a Rose. Turning my back on this horror, exiting, escaping the black iron gates, Continuing my stroll, now a hurried gait. Crystal jewels glistening past my face; I view through blurred vision Rose bushes entwined in other black gates- In them they thrive and grow- as I stroll down the bright, dry walk. I turn my face to the sky and smile, see the trees are clothed, the grass now soft- I would have never before noticed- the death of a Rose.
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