barry white


Cemetery Rose

The cold autumn winds cannot reunite leaves
with trees-the robins rain enraptured eyes
and wind waltzed wings tempt caged tears that grieve.
A widow plants flowers-her old man lies
ready to caress the contours of a rose,
his fingers are phantoms too frail to grip
a swaying rose as the cemetery gates close
and with newly found notes the robin slips
into a rhapsody. Fingers rove across

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