There is a bush of rose yellow where bloom tightly binds
through first frost protected by bough of
precious crabapple and wall of brick and mortar.
The few last petals cling to stem,
thorns useless for no passerby would pluck
such ragged bud to prove one’s love.
I clear away all that presents itself boldly just for show,
to see your grip as though it’s spring awakening.
Here I am comforted by your gentleness,
emboldened by your sense of strength in your own being,
and conceive that which only you know resides within.