Late Blooming Irony

Late spring peppered on a bough,
Whispered words, ghosts
Upon a woven pool;
Hung in the silent leaves,
Eavesdropping
For a story all its own:

A glorious rose of the moment,
Extended for a wiry time.
No expected blush
Nor freshest pride.

But a last fray, alone,
For curious blythe sweeping
In a gown too plain.

It never quite caught summer's eye,
Racing through, beckoning,
Thornless,
From a sheer shadow.