I'll never edit this one.
To A Rose
You would have loved now, too,
simple red truck, this simple song
as others you’d loved,
as, too, all these words I’ve read
before this halting
evening, would have read to you,
some I did,
some written since.
Too, a reverence
for odd things, as me and
this impromptu drive, as you—
to the length of a living in them,
or from them, too—
would have found you.
You, difficult with words,
were difficulty, too—
but a worship, some find, in difficult things
to keep us, as I’ve
with you.
See, a rose is less to me you,
less, too, any words.
Forget this road or this evening, too.
There will be others soon.
Only, there’s love, too,
odd with things too gone.
