the white rose is on our nose

i am always in my arm chair
or perhaps a comfortable chaise lounge,
sometimes watering my flowers,
but only if i can reach them.

otherwise i read, and often feel seduced by a book,
embarking on a secret affair with each beautiful page
as i finger its' edge.

when the air is dry as in a drought,
my flowers pen a quiet note for water,
and i spill the contents of a moist cup,

aiming for all and especially the white rose

near my hand, looking to solve actual mysteries.

what i find most clearly in reading is that
i am inspired by central figures, those larger-than-life
cubist personalities always at ease in traffic,
steering toward facts rather than faith, coloring outside their lines.

if it's summer, a fragrant scent will be painted
on my nose and the only evidence it might be from a

healthy rose is the soft writing inside my mouth.

roses do that to me, signing their autographs with love,

like a cubist personality.

and when it's winter, the nearby beach is closed, with many of the swimmers
waiting anxiously at home after reading the sign that says "NO SWIMMING!"

if a life guard is still on duty, it's to ensure there is no nudity.

but i can be nude in my arm chair,

or my comfortable chaise lounge. 

i write while i'm thinking of you, watching your smile become an undressed white petal.

the whole white rose i imagine is freshly fallen snow or perhaps a distant star or the circling moon and sometimes,
it simply is a rose.

like a watercolor, i can make it become what i want,
splashing like liquid white color in winter or summer, running, sledding, sitting, writing,

designing my rose into a heart shape to win your love.

and before it is gone, i sign and date the basket of white fruit
and present it to you while we sit watching the circling moon.

this moon is writing inside our mouth as we kiss, and the white rose is on our nose.