I prop my drooping rose
(its toppled head
hung on the limp stalk
of its spent neck)

first, on a wishful finger:
tilting the vase this way
and that, for a point
of balance that won’t endure;

then, on a twist-tie’s wrapped
wire, fished from a drawer
to fashion a spiral collar.
There, my dear; linger;

I’ve bought you a day’s grace
Drink up, stand tall. Trap
in the shady overlap
of your milky petals, some pale

December sun (its pearl
like yours, ephemeral)
as I’ve trapped your nodding head
awake, in a brace of metal.

–by Robyn Sarah, from the book “A Day’s Grace”