MY ROSE

Her hair

like tongues of fire

fanned by the breeze,

licks at cornstalks

as she races harum-scarum

through a summer field.

A golden child;

supple as a dancer,

nimble as a stream

she dances to nature’s tune;

head thrown back to

commune with clouds.

At dusk the flame dwindles.

Swinging her high onto

my shoulders I bear

my drooping Rose homeward;

our pockets full of daisies.