On an unusual, cold, August evening, at dusk...
I walk the hill as the mist falls gently on my being
I feel dispirited as I climb.
My footfalls break the silence
the dampness is penetrating; my eyes shed tears.
Soon, I will be again at her side...
She left me one August; summertime.
Reaching for the latch; I approached the wrought iron gate...
Pushing, it mourned; breaking the stillness of the night.
I stepped through. Behind me it closed as
the mighty oak trees, saturated; upon me they spate.
Shivering now, I walk ahead toward her.
I find her,
I sit on the damp marble and wait.
Hours pass, I feel cold and lonely.
A soft, pale pink rose I lay it beside her name.
Pink roses, her favorite color.
A pink rose, pressed between the pages of her Bible
My gift to her on Mother's Day...long ago, when a teen
She kept it close to her forever
...she gave me happiness with grace, joy, and laughter.
She will always be my Pink Rose.














