Roses—just once

Lonely is the woman—
who sits in an old wicker chair
on her porch,
in winter with a crochet blanket atop her knees
lonely woman—
strains her neck
watching every car that passes
every single car
watches and waits
and hopes,
it will stop
by her house
patiently waits
 a smile spreads across her face
when,
one slows down—
she sits up,
that little bit straighter
that little bit more determined
then shrinks back down,
when it continues on its way
cruel fate
leaves her all alone
on special days
they'll come
with a wilted poses of daisies
or carnations,
Mother's day—chrysanthemums
but she's not dead—
not yet,
don't they know,
chrysanthemums are for the dead,
carnations too
and daisies, well
she has her own in the garden
this is what her life has come to
this is what she waits for
roses—
just once