ROSE BEE
JACK L, IOWA
With’r’d roses: stems and thorns—
The kill of colour bloom;
Kiss’d no more by loving bees
That swoon’d in their perfurme.
Ev’ry autumn, wilt and die—
Death doth claim it all.
Come the spring they bloom anew,
Sending bees that fragrant call.
My wint’r has been long,
The wilting’s been severe—
A gard’n bed in Erebus,
No flow’rs seeded there.
But if eer a new spring dawns:
Were I to bloom anew,
And could still draw bee to wing—
I hope that loving bee is you.