sort of caterpillars attacked my roses.
Perhaps only seeking a bed for the night.
Wings ingrown, they never took to flight.
No longer in sight, they crawled off
in the mud after doing their damage.
Signs of webbing and excrement.
Their refuse left behind between
the stems and drooping buds.
White roses. Beautiful when not attacked.
Beauty is so fragile in this world.
Too easily lost. Too often degraded.
Too vicariously violated by small,
but all too oft' repeated times of violence.
Before the bud can come to bloom.
Like details of a lonely room that
stifle the most pure of all potential.
I know it's true. Because you see,
I was once almost beautiful too.
It would be at least another year,
if ever grace would come this way again.
While everything would be filled full of nature.
Spring and fall between the great extremes
of hot and cold that run within our dreams.
Another four eternal cycles, living but then gone,
before another chance might come
for such a bout of beauty to be born again.
Somehow we all revolve around such forms.
Even though we know full well
the strength of our fragility.
While every now and then we take
a chance and live the light into the night .
To seek the almost beautiful again...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .