wide-eyed owl sat staring
on his perch
telephone lines
slightly lurch
as dozens of birds lift off;
scan across the fading moon
in perfect linear motion
as awestruck tourists loom
silence rules the day
clouds banished from the skies
then depressed grey clouds
and complimenting cries
lakes of water swallow the ground
sorrow at morning light
the sharp silicon sky
shattered by pairs of cool white
one person strides through the rain
she has no refrain
for she is on a mission
and cannot afford mortal pain
a rose held tight in one hand
she takes a call
crossing the street
she trips, a fall
adrift in the air
surrounded with gasps
ajar against asphalt
her hand slowly unclasps
and the rose from her hand
as the cries from the skies
drifts quietly down to the pavement
and silently dies
flashes of blue and red light
loudspeakers shout
mere minutes go by
and they’re already out
the white and black street
bustling once more
with parents and children
out to the store
still left lying in the street–
a tragedy ill-fit for prose
the loss of a love,
la mort d’une rose.