Can't Help It

The last red rose of the year

from the Mister Lincoln tree 

lives in this here sentence,

kind of. It exists when I sniff

its luxuriant perfume and when

I tell myself the black nick

on one petal is to be preferred. 

and the petals are fluid sculptures.

Yes, I know, poets and roses,

roses and poets. Can't help it.

hans ostrom 2018