not a season. Men
fly high and slow in billowing
dust that blows hot and cold. Splintering

in winter. And hitting bottom
in autumn. I blossom January through
December in fire/not an ember. Spreading

my petals on my pages as men spread
their seeds, in denim and tweed. My words
sing with the birds every morning

as the golden sun is dawning. Sparkle
every night under the sweet moonlight. I harvest
this budding rose as men talk in prose. Watering

every stanza into a lyrical bonanza!