The old tea rose is blooming
so far past autumn's frost.
A pulse of resin still moves
the memory of full summer.
A stiffening curve of petals
does not yield obstinate color.
The poet carries a satchel of time.
Sometimes he takes out a letter
written on breezes of an old summer
and brushes off the cold of snowflakes.
So many things were caught in sunlight --
a glow on the grass and billowing of fabrics
hung on a clothesline that tingled presence.
Why answer such a letter written by spirits?
It's what a poet does, a rose blooms because.
And Tadeusz Różewicz is still not dead.
~ TB, 2013