Passion rears its ugly head

for time presented, a time

foretold 

A rose of Sharon, slowly

peeks its petals

to passerby 

Its scent not sickly sweet

but calms the mind

questions it

“Why have you passed me by?”

“Why come back to me now?”

She says this without words

but prompts mine own

hardened mind.

Then slowly index and toll

reach to grasp these petals

revealed, the color now lost

to my eye as the flower

bathes in moonlit night

but my arm pulls my hand

away 

For nightly I do pass this

rose, its vine tangles between

my feet–it grows on common

ground, this we share.

As it wraps me in its grasp

the flower is unaware.

I do not wish it fault

but blame my own step and 

the habit of my walks.

To find is to look