a single rose left in bloom
of the many I have watched
come alive these last months,
from the window of my room.

green buds fattening into
swollen hairy caterpillars
topping stem upon forbidding stem:

exploding one than another
into spotlights of colour
the breaking of bread
to an army of humming honey-makers.

now, a single bloom left.
in majesty, loneliness.
what would the rose choose,
choice given?

for as the last of the season
she is revered as such;
but alone learns the horror
of the truth, behind hush.