The earth has won,
as is always the case.
New grass reclaims its old place
Along the metal rim of the in-ground vase
where no one has left
flowers. Petals of the roses
I've left are captured and
held fast to the ground,
somehow, each a notch for a week gone by.
I could, you know, tear the earth, reform the ashes, petition god for the breath of life he gifted Adam and raise this Cutis to his private Eden. But there have been too many roses now and this grave, this last home of the wild prince...it's all just earth now, sadly, elegantly, perfectly earth.