A pale rose blooms


The wind roars down from the Steppes in the east.


Poplars bend, reeds with protesting voices,

and high in the tangle of branches, caught stars glitter.


Though wind roars and trees mutter,

cold bites deep and hard,

and owl calls, feather-caped and booted, oblivious.


Cold comes with stealthy

strides, heavy hooves, silent pads—

a pale rose blooms.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

16 thoughts on “A pale rose blooms”

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