and on the sixth day,
a rose appeared on our frozen porch.
     it had perched in an earthenware vase,
     soaked up psalms,
     blushed at amens,
     on a wood table as round as the world
two days later
it began to weep petals,
so i hung it in the kitchen window over the sink
to dry for your box of treasures.
it peered down at you during bathtime,
and even when you moved your splashing upstairs
it still looked for you amid cups and spoons,
dried cereal, applesauce.
after three hundred sunrises,
     breakfasts, dimple-grins, scrubbed counters, tears,
it’s bleached the color of straw,
drained of all rosy-ness.
if it ever makes it
to a treasure-box, if it doesn’t crumble
into a dismal potpourri,
will you still hear the hymns it held?
will you behold the color of distraction,
or attention?