Her name meant Rose.
Her kiss was nothing more
than a fleeting and tender
second, soft against a cheek,
permission to breathe
the same breath that comes
in the still moment you stop
to watch a firefly busy
thicket without trying
to decipher the message
flashing there in the leaves,
the truth you know you should
receive, but instead forfeit
for a quiet, floating Christmas
light minute in a warm, June breeze.
Her name meant Rose and it’s 9:24 am there.
drunken poem bodega 
i had the good fortune to see the ancient walled city before the bombs and hand-to-hand fighting embroiled it. The accompanying photo brings back so many memories, and all of them pleasant, as i am sure Your memories of Your Vietnamese “Rose” are. Thank You for the reminder……..c
You’re very welcome, Curtis. Thank you for the nice comments and memories. Good to hear from you.