Perhaps
just after the rose is cut and set into a crystal vase it brings summer into any
room – yet one by one as petals drop they disperse the beautiful unity that the
rose once was. Fragrant, fragile wings that leave their cherished bloom – each
a poem that unfolds with a wisdom waiting to be pressed between the pages of
any book.
Maybe the finder, years later, a mother herself, re-reads the passages housing the near translucent petals, willing answers to questions she failed to fathom asking back then, standing rooted and vibrant in the rear view mirror of her mother’s passing, which passes back to her in the skin of this morning’s dream, outlines disintegrating but pulsed by a memory of burl trunked but steady love.
Maybe the finder, years later, a mother herself, re-reads the passages housing the near translucent petals, willing answers to questions she failed to fathom asking back then, standing rooted and vibrant in the rear view mirror of her mother’s passing, which passes back to her in the skin of this morning’s dream, outlines disintegrating but pulsed by a memory of burl trunked but steady love.
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