Days have no number:
snow flakes your closed petals'
white, yet your heart knows
Love doesn't slumber.
Somewhere between
hurt and redeeming, your
bruised stem straightens.
Years cannot cumber.
Closed petals open
through snowfall to shining: to
wait is to ripen.
In Love you remember.
Rose in December,
Christ whites your winter: Love's
sweetness renews you, dear,
days beyond number.
