“Relatively Red”

Roses are read in red ink,
on an ivory page.
Seeming centuries old,
conveying: nothing
of scent, or petal
or thorn, yet -

reach out your hand
the page is still warm.

Violets are darker,
in cooler tints.
Spelled out in shades

one could view the world through,
quite as clearly as rose-colored specs,

Except

You would not trust the one
who you love anymore. Or
anything they might do next
in this suddenly uncertain age.
Through new eyes, their flesh
gone gray, their lively glow faded

and blurred to a violet stain
on a cold white page.