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By Joanne Sprott

It was purple in its redness,
Cut from sustenance of soil,

Light, wind, and rain,
To draw empty water
From a slender vase.

Every petal is doomed
By the cutting of green stem
From rose root.

Too, we are cut from our roots
Now and then, to slowly die.

Our petals droop like blood
Suspended from our wounds,

To fall onto the tablecloth
As fragrant stains.

Petals cling to life.
Petals rest in pain,

Until, desiccated by time,
They blow away,
Their velvet beauty
Pressed only into memory.

2000 Joanne Sprott
Previously published in her blogspot

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