The rose bush died.
Brown stems wither and shed their leaves.
Thorns are still sharp and vengeful
As if in anger at an early demise.
I wear my gloves to fend off damage.
The thorns prick, surprising
me with pain. Blood soaks the cloth
like tears that cannot be brushed away.
Roots surprisingly strong
Grip the earth in rebuttal of my efforts
To pull them loose and clean the bed.
I kneel in the dirt, tired from the struggle.
In time, another rose will be planted.
It will be fragrant and beautiful,
A reminder of the one lost.
I will water its petals with my tears.