The rose once technicolor bright
now sepia-toned, left, an oversight
to blend into the background.
And she, nearly devoid of color
doesn’t see it, everything now duller,
except when in her dreams.
Her frail body, a slight bump beneath
the blankets, but her mind unleashed
flits between sleep and waking–
she sees a vision of their summer home
the cottage colored sand and sea foam
and brightened by its rose garden,
and always scented by the sea.
But here and now, she
hears the ocean, waves lapping,
slapping the rhythm of the tide,
calling her—to slide
into her memories–
or no, a harbinger it seems
of what is next, not dreams.
Her sun is setting,
and now the room glows
a well-loved voice she knew and knows
says, “Come, Love. I’ve been waiting.
Sarah at dVerse has been pondering the word “harbinger,” and asks us to do the same in a poem. Lately my poems want to be stories, and my stories want to be poems. Perhaps this is a harbinger of something yet unknown (to me). 🙂