Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
Roses he gave her, she took them in her hand The petals silk warm, still harboring his touch She knew not where to look, his face was a beacon A desire of yearning, too bright to stare upon, So she stared at the roses, their rosy tinge her own.
The years they raced by full of home, hearth, and heaven Their love knew no bounds and their eyes saw no other Until the day came when a lone grave boasted roses One standing alone to see light like a beacon, eclipsed, And roses ice crusted by death’s wintry dew.
a rose to you and you and you dear readers that stumbled onto this page and familiar friends who’ve long remained through drought or storm as balmy days faithful ones who exchange the fruits gleaned from weedy words and pruned vines some tangy to the taste or sweetly spiced all enlivened with the sunlit labor of moments transcribed to screens of dispersed bytes to be received like petals furled and unfurled as if a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose when given in love