The year’s last rose
bravely blazing pink.
I think. Or is it orange?
She does not fear
the wind or frost.
The cloud just above
the bridge that links
the refinery to the prison
shines like a fiery spear.
Perhaps she just
wants to join our
merry Christmas lights
strung along the eaves
and wrapped around
the trees. The leaves
of the bloodgood maple
just below her throne
glow like stained glass
windows in a chapel
when the sun cracks
through the branches
of the sequoia like
the winter solstice
dawn at Stonehenge.
