First Snow

i
No breath of wind
disturbs this perfect canvas:
dwarf roses, faded, leafless;
twisted branches gray and brown;
intricate overlay
of pristine snow, pyramidal
tracings of every line and arc
in flakes of fallen crystal.
Suspended within
     this latticework
a thousand rose hips burn
like sour radishes
or petrified cherries,
a memory of blushes
and blood-flushed passion
caught unawares by winter.

ii
An hour later, I pass again.
The snow’s calligraphy
is still untouched by wind.
Rose hips still beam
their ruddy messages.
The sun has slid
across the ice-sky
to its low-slung zenith
and one hundred
astonished roses
have opened their petals —
     dying as fast
     as they unfurl,
their wilting edges burned
by unkind frost,

virgin Juliets
no sooner born
     than entombed.
The suicidal blooms
lean to the sun, pleading
their disbelief of darkness,
the impossibility
of sudden perishing.

Love comes unbidden thus,
as the capricious rose.