Pink Rose 

by Linda Crate

once we saw
a purple butterfly,
but he didn't
want his photograph
taken beneath broken
white clouds in
softly whispering blue skies
whose bright smiles couldn't echo
anything close to ours;
i remember putting myself in
vulnerable positions for your sake
because i knew i needed
to be more open—
i remember my hair blowing in the wind
as we drove to edinboro in your
little pink car after one
of our many adventures,
and i always admired both your vulnerabilty and
your strength;
always you struck me as otherworldly
for you woke me when i thought the dreaming was dead—
so many memories i could tell you,
but your memory isn't as good as mine;
perhaps you've already forgotten
who i was—
but i must confess that i will never forget you,
pink rose.
- linda m. crate