Flame of Red Roses


A heavy cloud in the sky is hanging over our home,

inside a young child lay lifeless – as he curls like a tired
baby; his knees to his chest, toes curled, elbows tucked
tightly to his sides, and the cloud bursts.

He doesn’t hear the rain fall nor care as he is still;
his skin as white as sheets where he lay – we call it

A sun peeks through the mountains, oaks, pines,
and maples, where he once played.  Back then – a restless
child trying to out run his friends, throw the football to 
touch a fence in a distant field – he out grew the swing
attached to the largest limb of the tree – below his tree house.

Children are patient when they are ill – unlike grown
ups – as if they lay within a den watching a lion, a cub, seeking 
his mother’s warmth to bring him back to health

A clock near the stand, next to his bed keeps ticking, a heart
inside his chest keeps working – even his smile now and then,
is kind.

We pray around his bed for his recovery, with our deepest
hope his sleep will end like winter when spring begins – so
he will be healed as earth springs back to life – and the black

cloud above the house
will leave – only blue cotton in the sky, and we dream – 
as we search the whites of his eyes.

We keep to ourselves our wonder if there will be an angel
to join him on his ride – one ride on a fluffy cloud, above the 
mountain – when he is called –  to leave behind a swing in a
backyard – a tree house; as the flame of red summer roses drop
one petal and another – humid air may steal him away from us,
we know a smile will cross his face telling us to be strong for he
is young and prepared.

  1. Jean M. Cogdell says

    A moving piece that left me with few words, a rare event for this writer.

  2. Nancy Duci Denofio says

    Jean, thank you for your response, great to know you are reading. Sincerely, Nancy

  3. Andrew J. Sacks says

    Nancy, I echo the thoughts and words of Jean. Fine work once again!

  4. Nancy Duci Denofio says

    Thank you Andrew, I guess if you read some of my manuscripts you would find another voice inside of me. Writers carry around a few voices, aren’t we lucky. Sincerely, Nancy

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