She lays the pale-pink rose
inside the fountain remembering
how it was a living thing, rooted,
just a day or so ago, but the blush
lingers, the scent remains,
the petals are still silken to the touch,
but only for a day or two more,
with no roots, no veins inside the soil,
it will fade as do all planted things
when they have no connection
to this earth. For a moment
she is sad, but then she smiles
as she considers the loveliness
of its parting gift of beauty.
—C.L. Fisher, February 2021
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