I have trouble finding a poem
for the third photograph,
so although I will persevere
and find one whose words
can fit the image,
I will here
write a poem
to hold the place -
pink rose flowers
still blooming as November
begins, giants
larger than the looming
skyscrapers
in their slow death
near the shore
of the inland sea,
near the winter
that will come
as snowflakes carried
by northern winds
over the liquid vastness,
falling thick upon
the park of dead roses
to open a wide white page
before the next chapter opens.
04.11.2025
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