Through the thorns

We search for a scarlet rosebud,
grabbing past the dreary thorns —
hidden but hopeful — pricking us
on our pursuit of that perfect bloom
sprouting defiantly for us.

The fire reveals the fruit but
illuminates scars — some we’d hoped
to hide with half-eaten candy —
not realizing that the bigger the room
the more places for serpents to hide.

I feel fortune’s poke in this, propelling us
on a treasure hunt where X
misses the mark sometimes while
our best highwater pants
keep our shins delightfully dry.

Stuck in a vase

What intimacy in a rose —
unafraid to draw blood it
entangles (or ensnares) all brave enough
to reach (stuck in that moment)
for a thrill.

Its perfume no longer pricks
my nose (in moments overcome
by desire I stick my nose in)
bred instead for its petals —
so red (or pink).

I’ll let this rose rest in a vase,
passion burning in tepid water
(I must remember to change
the water) — safe from plucky hands
(and fingerprints).