The Rose
A rose is almost human –
I mean, we’ve made it so –
An endless metaphor
For skin, for lips, for secrets.
A breast is a rose, and a mouth,
And a baby’s hand
Is a rose unfurling.
The colours of the rose are human
And the language of the rose is love –
Love pure, love passionate, love undying –
Even as the petals brown and splay
They offer up their scent.
You can get drunk on roses
An excess
Of perfume, and of love.
Sarah writes poems 