Roses

They say the last rose
of summer
is low born -
a slow moving blossom
that bears a crooked stem.
Pluck it carefully,
tender color
to raise the dull dusk
of your dress;
flush it pale and perfect
along your thighs.

You move through the trees
like pelerines at the fair,
carrying it in your hand
the adieu of petals
already inscribed -
never thinking
to score the thorns
or to leave it behind
for the one
who called you sweetheart.