Roses have bloomed
along the roadside in front of the hall.
Passersby pause for a moment,
taking photographs
or leaning close to breathe in the fragrance.
I do not have the courage
to take a photograph,
nor the courage
to draw near enough to smell them.
Instead, I write a poem
and softly read it aloud.
As a bud slowly opens
at the end of a bent stem,
perhaps the human heart as well
blooms quietly
after passing through
its own appointed time.
Bent waist of earth
A breath lingering in fragrance
Shade of the roses