where the perfume of winter roses go

bring me into the winter
where we turn our hearts
in to the night, folding them
up tightly between the limbs
of trees and dreams passing
us by, they take their leave
on the backs of the mist
that touch us with cold
fingertips on our exposed
wrists we used to hold,
to check if our hearts had
caught a cold, leaving
us with a fever, dark
as a red rose – chosen,
pricked, held up to
our noses – the wind
grabbed the fragrance
and fled – somewhere
up in the stars above
our head

Respond to where the perfume of winter roses go

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