The Savant of Sunflowers, the Apprentice of Roses

Something in a rose 
knows to spread its roots 
into a stable base, 
how to shimmy up a trellis, 
graft onto reliable stock, 
open up rich with scent, 
and slowly unfold another 
flush of tawny bloom. 

While you're away, 
I miss the parts of me 
that regrow with you: 

the mischief elf, the sensual self, 
the sonneteering ghost 
who rides the flanks of night, 
breathing time, sweating stars, 
while memories swim 
like constellations overhead. 

I miss the serpentine Eve 
who rarely dozes, the attaché 
that sometimes imposes, 
all the sprites who sprint 
through the high supposes, 
the patient saint who aspires 
to a heaven which encloses, 
and, especially, the touched one 
committed to the asylum 
and penitentiary of roses.