Haunting Memory

To be the poet of such prose
Who, could torch a flame
Upon a rose

Taming it until it glowed
Then turning it to ash
As white as snow

And as upon the wind
She would flow, whispering
As she goes

“Such a shame to do this thing,
To sing about the memory
Of a ghost”

Whom now but a wisp of smoke
Was once well with-in a flower
Clothed