The last rose blooms

On slender stem stripped bare by the wind.

Like the last child

Flourishing in the failing shelter of the old parent tree.

Slight head bows

So little weight on the old branch

So sweet the scent

So bright the red in the dim light.

The old tree sighs and bends in the gusting wind

And the rose sheds its perfume

Suave and soothing

As dark winter falls.