Late Summer Roses
She walked by the charred stones
on the trodden, worn path.
She held a letter in her hand.
She continued by the dying, dried bushes
and the black stumps of trees.
The parchment paper fluttered in the dry breeze.
She sauntered around a still pond that reflected
the evening's sunset in its mirrorlike water.
She glanced down at the faded, ancient script.
She stumbled through the yellow grass,
matted and tangled in the field.
She folded the letter in half.
She stopped and sat down by the bushes
of late summer roses, crimson as drops of blood.
She unfolded the letter and absorbed the words,
remnants of her past.