THE THORNS OF A ROSE (2003)

The restless doors

Close

In spring

On a budding rose

That echoes

The cry

Of the lonely hunter

Passing by

Still the river flows

But dark and quiet

And not quite

As it was

In summer

A brook

Gay and sprite

A frothy white

And knew not

The woes

That comes of carrying

The thorns

of a Rose.