Winter works her way across the hearts of lonely lovers.
Frost-tipped fingers scrape away at the romance of fall
And litter the path with shards and shreds of the unwary.
The tattered and torn, the weary and worn, succumb. They bow.
But not so for the waking, blossoming warrior in the wild.
A shield of color against night will rage. Will fight
Will ward the darkness for one day more in a voice defiant.
Yes, you’ll come. Yes, you’ll rule. Yes…but not yet
taken today from a wild rose bush in our yard