A Chill Wind

The ghosts of leaves take shelter in the edges of my garden,
scraps settling in hidden piles, as if asking the pardon
of roses trembling on the vine, left to face the frost
that is surely coming, and they know at what a cost.
Stepping around rocks that have encroached upon the path,
I pick one last remaining rose to save it from the wrath
of winter that approaches day by day by day
to ice the flesh of growing things and crumble them away.

For the Sunday Whirl Wordle the prompt words are: shelter settle rose rocks edge step messy flesh left ghost tremble scrap. (Yes.. I admit I left “messy” out. You can take 8.3333 points off my score!)