Her name is Rose

i entered the home.
how beautiful the peacefulness of her bed.
shallow breathing beneath the night shirt
resting in her throat.
she has a slight fever,
with strawberry blush on both cheeks
and the clear murmer or a deep hum
persisting like small tidal waves
filling her childhood sand box:
the collapsing castles
collecting Kings and Queens
soon to be gently overthrown.
she slept during my visit with soft eyes,
and waiting lips which will not kiss again
a favorite lover's neck,
resting quietly in her old world.
the thick glass vase by her night stand
complete with roses of red, white, and charming shades of yellow,
simply uninterested in the urgent voice from the close television,
sacrificing themselves to quench her thirst for momentary beauty.
she is actively dying.
not seeking the graveyard or the wall
where trellises with measured silence
watch people pass into their garden,
her name is Rose.
the framed collage hangs
filled with pictures of happy grandchildren
and treasured daughters.
un-sipped orange juice capped on the nearby tray
grows warm.
she grows cold.
her auburn hair waits for the comb
which waits for her.