In the flower shoppe,

the peeling red roses—

startling of love from barrels in corners—

asking for respite in desperate voices,

writing on note cards in spidery scrawl

the quiet to steal heart after heart;

a subtle perfume, dense and aromatic,

as you were, the colorful bouquet,

woven dexterous

by angels.

The dark comes at the end of each evening,

blotting out the transgression of former hours,

piercing through our sin are the stars.

They compared me once to a night without stars.

In all her journeys into the soul, a woman

gathers her power as nature recreates itself each day

summoning all that is within her,

she imparts strength to those she loves

and those she must forgive,

writing them notes with flowers.

Emily Isaacson