Our Fallen Fawn, A Withered Rose© Poem by JC Linn

Our fallen fawn? You do but jest,
In vain the search among
Vain words for what can be at best
But wronged by being sung.

We loved the rose, the regal rose,
And say our utmost word
In saying rose. What worth are those
That prate its beauty stored
In colors penciled by the sun,
That pry into its heart
As doth the bee? When words are done,
A rose, speaks all its art.

The plumage of the red bird flashed
Athwart the cedar's green,
The robin's call, a gold streak splashed
On silence, these have been
For words we seek elusive charms.
The Hand Creative slips
Complete to life imperfect forms
That silence praiseful lips.

Our fallen fawn? We do but seek
In rhyme our love to phrase,
Too wise, perchance, or not so weak,
Our perfect rose to praise.

With love, Jim
... and still we miss our withered rose
jcl 16 Apr 2009©