Her hand was pale
and held a single rose,
picked from his garden
and happy to oblige.
A change of scenery
the promise of a home
among so many flowers,
and lovely melodies
of birds in residence.
She could not bring herself,
within the silence of her heart
to dropp the rose into the grave.
A stubborn thought had come
on frizzly wings, it stayed.
She could not take him home,
was free to take his rose
to care for as his loving hands
had done to his last day.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-rose/
