Amidst grey plots,
cold moon-shadows,
dark green pine and snow,
cover the sleeping rose
as she slumbers until the spring
when she'll spread her arms and yawn
among ice-blue forget-me-nots
eager to disperse their spell.
But grey plots — care not,
each headed by worn grey stones
each measured and spaced like gum drops
on a bashful schoolboy's plate:
one for me — one for you.
Now they rest together
with a rose planted above and between
amidst blue-fields of forget-me-nots.
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