Red, For Remembrance

Twelve roses on the highway where
the accident occurred. I wish that I
I had bothered with a second dozen
so that there would be thirteen, one
thorny stem for each year since his
passing, years with thorny ways as well,
but not bereft of many moments beautiful,
with tender joys expressed like petals
of the roses in my sad bouquet.
I pull off of the road and wait
for stoplights at each distant
end to help me out, hold back the busy
throng, give time and room to safely
walk into the middle. Long stems
drop at random intervals
across the lanes back to the car
without a backward glance. I sit inside a bit
and suddenly, when traffic passes once
more in its fury, some blooms violated
by the weight and speed are dragged so far,
so fast, it almost takes my breath
away. But when the constant moving pattern
sinks back to a momentary quiet, I see
that some still lay intact, at least until
another herd can thunder past, reminder of
the lasting things in life that won't be
stolen by such temporary things as death.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013