Wintry Bouquet

by Joan McNerney

This December

during wide nights

hemmed by blackness,

I remember roses.

Pink yellow red violet

those satin blooms of June.

We must wait six months

before seeing blossoms,

touch their brightness

crush their scent

with fingertips.

Now there are only

ebony pools of winter’s

heavy ink of darkness.

Dipping into memory of

my lips touching petals

tantalizing sweet buds.

My body longs for softness.

I glimpse brilliant faces of

flowers right before me as I

burrow beneath frosty blankets.

Bracing against that long, cold

nocturnal of wind and shadow.