Irish Rose

 



Greener than the clover’s mile,
sweeter in a pinch, to me,
brighter than her lack of auburn,
redder robins in the trees.

Who was in the vernal sky
through the glass I called a rose?
True, we were the best of friends,
two in limbo, so it goes.

Cupid and his simple rhymes,
stupid though, they were,
stolid from the month before,
squalid like the love for her.

Simply put, that day in Spring
barely made the calendar,
sadly, dropped her off the map,
kindly, girl in lavender.