three months have gone by.

I am weary of hectic, long days. 

I carry a heavy burden in me. 

Give me peace, simply to be,

open the letterbox and spy a poem. 

Beside it a rose so fragile and fine. 

From whom can this love token be? 

The bloom lies affectionately in my palm, 

I tremble, and weak, lean against the wall. 

Turn my glance and read the tender lines, 

I sink into the words for an eternal while. 

Letters flow through the small pupil door 

and line themselves up in a string 

like a tear drop on the cheek they glide to my soul, 

from the author's comparison of me to the rose

It takes off all my tiredness - I'm aware of  my feelings, 

and lets me willingly fall into the poet's tempting seduction. 

I feel it rush through my veins, 

and I will always listen in. 

These presents are such an enrichment of our lives. 

I will ever dwell in this homecoming. 

The rose smiles - and I smile in return.