There sits atop my desk a white rose
A great silken blossom larger than my open palm
Sustained by something so ever simple as clear
Fresh water, unperturbed in a slender fluted glass.

The white rose stands for pure love, she said.
My wife, last night, said as we ate supper,
I don't know what it means.

And it sits there my
White rose, unmoving and steadfast for
Weeks, months! I know because
I have counted the days -
Since she found out
My wife, months ago, that I kissed your mind.

It has quietly sat there, my
White rose, through the storm front:
The wronged love,
The gut-wrenching search for soul-truth,
The secret, unrepentant conviction.

And now, my poor
White rose, now, in the
Eye of my storm, in the
Deceiving calm -
Will you still be there,
When the consequences of my
Decision come to pass?

Do you know what the yellow rose stands for? she asked.
My wife, last night, asked as we ate supper.

It stands for friendship, I said
And ate, and
Stared at the vibrant, young yellow
Rose on the table, between us.