Watering Dead Roses

Three vases worth of roses.

I found them by the door, barely sheltered

in the rain;

I took them in to drain,

then watered them again.

They found homes in cups and coffee pots,

catching lots and lots

of petals

and lots and lots

of thorns.

My room was torn apart

to give them all the space

for all the light.

And for once,

everything was bright.

That silky red

had managed

to thread my thoughts together.

I kept them on display

during periods of good weather.

As part of my routine,

I made sure they were seen.

Kept them fed

watered

happy

pruned

and clean.

My efforts were not

in vain.

For all the times

a thorn had caused me pain,

we nipped it in the bud

and carried on again.

The scent was sweet;

it soothed my nerves.

The petals were soft;

I loved their curves

around my finger

and the way their visage

would linger

as I drifted off to sleep.

But the longer that they lived,

the harder they were to keep.

Soon enough

I missed a day,

then two

then three,

four

and five.

I started to wonder

If they ever were alive.

How were they supposed to thrive

when these roses came unrooted?

It got more convoluted.

The colours got more muted

and by the end

it’s undisputed

that I was just

watering dead roses.

*

As the remains are taken out,

I regret they couldn't sprout.

But I least I have the pictures.

All of them sitting in my room;

both of us together in full bloom.