The Dark Roses

The roses that I sent on Mother’s Day
Maintained, in their glass vase, an after-glow
Of crimson lustre, but their late display
Of faded glory finally was gone
For good. Strange that the shape of every bloom
Remains, the outline of its folds more clear
Now than before. This I must dwell upon:
Here in the sunlight of this perfect room
These roses die well, though they bring night near —
For the darkness in their petals seeks me too,
And once inside it I won’t even know
How beautifully designed they are, how true
To life. But for the moment they are here
Where I can see them, as I pray that you
Will think of what I once was when I go:
Not beautiful, as these dead things are still,
But still too full of life for time to kill.