First Snow

 

by Brett Rutherford

 

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.

 

Rev Feb 2018