and the blackened rose went shadow
its life in swan turned to widow;
the pretty head atop a stem
now hung in mourn its black its gem.
its petals swirl into the air
a gown of fragrance to a prayer.
`twas once attended by her hand
each bloom a study like the fan;
the class has closed, the teacher's gone
and all the bloosoms have withdrawn.
their scent now captured in a glass
the final moment through half mass.
once veiled in grey is fresh serene
as weight does lift from garden green.
for my mother
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
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