I stood, a silent witness
As with each pulse of the sea,
A dozen long-stem roses
Dug their graves in the sand.
There is a threshold that is reached
With balance beams and drift lines –
Where you must decide to leap off
Or get back on the road.
The choices are three:
The swift snapping of the stem,
The slow drain of color
From the brined petals,
Or you choose to gather each rose
Pressing it to the breast; dull ache,
Thorns puncturing the fragile
Cellophane that wraps the heart,
And you walk on.
I have known the pain
That comes with the sound
Of surf ceasing
As a vessel sails out to sea.
Fly …fly with me.
© M. G. Iannucci 2016
Photo: Roses on the Beach by Andrea Westmoreland