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,
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.