She seems the rosé type…

Blushed cheeks sit aside peony pink lips,

faint scent spritzed onto neck un-kissed,

quaint gloves placed between neat fingertips.

Pruning Hydrangeas under sun painted skies,

knelt on blades of grass not an inch too high.

Perfectly plucked petals by delicate hand

which shapes into a wave for the figure who stands,

watching.

Face hidden by expensive drapes

if not for an eye that holds a gaze,

wondering

if she is the rosé type.

What lies beyond her perfect borders?

Sweet lavender breezes, masking the torture.

Poor her,

pours herself a pink liquid that touches the rim

to sip bare foot amongst willow tree limbs

as the light dims.

In the morning she’ll surface

but not for any purpose,

other than to peruse her garden amongst perennial friends,

whilst thinking of you.

Impatient for summer,

when the roses will bloom.