The rose as a symbol of silence.
Anciently, it makes its way into the
world of sound again. For every petal
ever opening must have its say. I hear
a chant, so vibrantly exposing what it
feels like to be satin soft and smelling
sweet within the bounds that
all sensation brings to be.
One chance to live its life
into the fullest
possibility that bloom can ever bring. One
possibility (just now) within this moment, of
its opening into forever. Silently, it comes
to speak of every opening of heart that
our humanity has e'er achieved. And the
world changes, at its beck and call; and too,
within the nuance of all sighs - as autumn
flows into its state of coolness yet again.
There is a song that sings
of just one seed,
frozen 'neath the snow; awaiting that one
chance to be a rose when springtime comes
into its warmth yet once again. Each time it
plays upon the radio, a lonely tear still finds
a way to roll right down my cheek. Forever,
have I sought this bloom to be the meaning of
my life into eternity. I reach, yet all the many
checks and balances of this society,
breech the bonds of this one love so true.
Yet still, the silence keeps
on singing, e'en as
each rose becomes a re-arising of the feeling
of all spring. And still I seek to be its ever
altering within one human form - that allows
its death to re-arise again and yet again -
each time the snowflakes and the cold of
winter find their way into a state of bold
ascendance within me...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .