Rose Cyle Poem by Fred Rik Kesner
Rose Cyle
cracked pot by the door—
a rose blooms despite the mess
still catching the light
her red is louder
than missed calls and loaded carts
she blooms anyway
petals tilt, unasked
you pause with a half-held sigh
she knows how to wait
no slow violins—
just leaves falling on concrete
no apologies
gone with no fanfare
she leaves red on your fingers
like something unsaid
.
© 13 hours ago, Frederick Kesner
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 12:07:39 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
