Close the Lid

A yellow rose rests

on the music shelf.

Close the lid,

I can play nothing else.

When the rose was fresh,

I fumbled on the keys.

Out of key, black

and white it seems.

The yellow rose dried.

Like old parchment

tucked in my songbook.

I won’t forget where it went.


© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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