White roses in a mason jar
On the cracked, yellowed paint of my windowsill.
They wait with petals clasped tight
For a far off sunrise.
They want to open their eyes
To a virginal sun,
As it casts golden lights on my wrinkled sheets.

Maybe I scratch at their smooth veneer,
Or crumple them until my bitten nails, crooked fingers,
Scarred palms marred by hangnails, carry their scent.

Or, this once, I prick my finger on a thorn,
And dye them delicate crimson.

Then the storm clouds roll in, and white roses
Shrink back into their stems at the shriek of the wind,
As tempestuous gods kick clouds in their tantrums.
The white roses fall to the floor,
The mason jar shatters,
The wind tosses my sheets.