R is for rose
and reconciliation,
reunion. I open
my dictionary's 2,347 pages
to the first leaf of R
where an offering
caught in mid-bloom
lies pressed, its red
dried dark as blood.
Two petals severed
from the bud cling
in the volume's gutter crease.
This is what remains
of the florist's dozen
that trimmed your apology.
What if I had refused
those blooms? Rejection
might have left the wild
primrose vine ringing
your cottonwood tree, untouched.
Instead, I kissed the scratches
on your wrists that rendered
its imperfect blossoms,
damp in newsprint. Flipping
to F, page 654, I find
its one flower, flawed
pink, for forgiveness.