We wrestled on this bed of roses
over which of us was sweetest.
You liked to pull them up over us
to weave us in and snip the world out.
I try not to think of what we’ve lost
but of a sweetness I never suspected
existed before I saw the petite
fierce bud of joy that was your face
on a blanket full of yellow roses.
© Dan Goorevitch, 2008
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