a long ways off

a row of roses
once
red, yellow, the yellow
young girls prefer,
are rusting
along the side
of the house.
a thin metal fence
neither guards
or adorns
it just sits
imbedded in the ground,
round shouldered
and white,
put there by hands
that touch the window,
fingers that
bled on thorns.
she looks out,
at the sky,
the tattered swirl
of grey
clouds, the possibility
of rain,
first snow.
tomorrow seems a long
ways off.