A once-white yellow rose
stands in its tenement,
a waterless vase on
Honduran rosewood
out of reach of
the sunlight’s royal intrusion.
Watching the rain,
this rose and I are bound.
But as always, the rain
stops
long enough for the birds
to peruse the hard ground.
The light coming from the kitchen window
skips
and I am entranced
by the morphing dichotomy.
Indeed, do I
dare disturb the universe?
Do I dare keep writing
when this rose is still so yellow?