no matter how many autumns
I am given on the planet,
that at this late date
roses still bloom in my fair city,
sturdy stems laddering their
way to the sky,
a lavender bud high on top
starting to unfurl, and,
behind it, leaves preparing to turn
before their fall,
and a profusion of white roses
thick on the bush
and still some myrtle on the crape,
all set against a vastness so blue,
reminding me to hold those in despair,
deep in the mess of their lives,
often not of their own making,
so very tenderly.
Güd wrtr 
Love the ending to this poem! By the way, it’s crepe, not crape for myrtle…. Hugs, Amrita
Thanks, Amrita! I have to look this up every time I use it. Both spellings are correct, according to University of California Agriculture and Natural Resources. Apparently, “crape” is the more common spelling in California.