What becomes of the pink petal,
when storm clouds spill over its garden?
What of the starlight,
when the sky is stitched shut with smoke?
What becomes of the rose,
when frost grips the stem
that once danced in the sun?
What of the mirror,
when the girl it remembered
grows steel in her gaze?
What becomes of the ladies
in gloves and curls,
when war calls their men?
Shall I still paint my lips
and powder my nose?
But what are painted lips
to a letter that takes weeks to arrive?
And what is a powdered nose
to a muddy trench?
It seems I must wear my apron—
and a silent smile.
But is silence not a casualty too?
Shall I trade my apron for overalls?
My silence, for a voice?
Or shall I remain
the apple of your eye,
the picture in your wallet,
the rose that wakes you,
and pulls you home?