Cradle

 I 
bled
roses
at your grave…
cold garden of stone 
Prayed, you’d revive from earth’s mulched bed 
Tugged firm at grief’s deep roots; hands torn, turned sanguine through thorns
Watered, pruned... still, did not return  
Petal’s now pillow
to gently
cradle 
my 
head 

© Debbie Razey 2022 - Violet Moon Poetry