I want to see the roses
in the park
of my childhood
where I played as young
as the newly formed statues there.

Rain drops
tiptoe in puddles
that grow as we splash.
We wade through pools
of uncertain dreams.
We swim in lonely desire.

I see their chiseled bodies
with unblinking eyes
regard me
a pink, imperfect bud.

I imagine them now
moss laureled halos
mother-of-pearl and shell
and I wonder if they still
tend the roses
whether they are too old now,
whether I am too old.
And what of their loneliness?
And what of mine?