finally, the red leaves a litter. They like largest driest petals dropped from crusted rose. I see here, the roses still on their tall stalks, if brushed would crush to fall. If a rose could talk it would bloom; in the times I've felt the nearest push of prick into me, my cushioned thumb in hazard, in lightning, I never hasten wonder when wilst the final bud drop to crumble. Anchored now in thorough autumn, still open and gushing sappy pink light of softest flesh petal skywards. The open rose, the frozen palm.
