Pantoum II

Another rose poem. Well, they’re coming into bloom even this far north. It’s a five stanza pantoum, though I’ve been a little loose with the form of the final stanza.

He thinks of ice upon a thorn,
Of frost, creeping across a rose,
And shivers, despite the sun, in face
Of all such things: cold, dead, lovely.

Of frost, creeping across a rose,
Of love’s decay, a cankered heart…
Of all such things – cold, dead, lovely –
Why speak? You know as well as I

Of love’s decay, a cankered heart.
Picture instead a perfect rose;
Why, speak: you know as well as I
The snow white bud that has no thorn.

Picture instead a perfect rose,
Each petal pearled by summer rain;
The snow white bud that has no thorn
And opens sweet as love upon the day.

Shaking his head, he turns away.
He thinks of ice upon a thorn,
A ruined garden touched by frost,
Of all such things, cold, dead, lovely.

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