In a Quiet Courtyard  Beverly Koepplin

The gate closes in the still night.
The only sound is that of fading footsteps.
A woman sits on the bench
Crushing a rose in her left hand
Holding her right hand to her pale face.
The blood weeps from her fingers, the tears weep from her eyes,
all in silence.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud
And its light falls on the woman,
the torn and crumpled rose,
the cold marble bench
in an attempted benediction
before it retreats behind the clouds
leaving no fading footsteps.

The flowers of the day fold softly into themselves,
their scent fading on the slight breeze,
their velvet petals turning into steel walls,
all in silence.

If you were to listen very carefully
you would hear one sound,
a quick and thin clean snap
as a heart breaks in two.

The woman arises from the bench
and silently, hunched over herself
like a small wounded animal, goes out through the gate.
The moon comes out again, 
plays it light over the damaged rose, 
the marble bench, the closed flowers
and finding nothing on which to shed its grace goes back in.
Once again footsteps fade, and the courtyard is quiet.
                                        ***