Moisture

I hear midnight,
calling withered roses-
dusty, black now.
The pink ribbon their noose.
Strongest upside-down
All becomes brown;
sometimes black.
Never red, never yellow.
These are beginnings,
only to fade- dull lustre away.
Thick, pungent, moist the petals
breathe.
Speak? For conscience.
For me. Even if only
within my heart.
The breath is my spirit,
and dry the changing wind.
Nov. 22, 1996