Despite the hosing,
stems still cling to their cobwebs.
Strands draped between limbs,
threads quivering in a threat to untangle.
Roses grow thirsty again in a moment,
stripped out of their petals
heat caught up on their thorns.
A lessening, in want of more.
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris,
of Florence and Venice,
of worlds we would travel.
We walked among roses
until thorns turned to claws
and flowers were beautiful no more.