To Love, A Rose

Does a rose love . . . ?
standing in the singularity
of its own beauty
opening that all who care to see
might think of opening themselves
to beauty too
there within the power
of the silent softness of its being

Does it then love more . . . ?
when cut from the stem
of its own creative generation
or does it struggle to survive
then end itself
as its own beauty turns to something other
only knowing that as other
it will arise e'en more complete
somewhere, somehow to take its place again
within these schemes of greater being

Is this then, all that love can mean . . . ?
an ending that another can begin
or could it be that nature seems
to be this love we feel within projection
unknowing in its state of blind perfection
and we, the seeds and seekers
of its very need to know
the where and why and how
of all beginnings and all endings
that can only live the in between
within the cyclic flow of all that is

What wonder, beatific grace
arises then, within our eyes
as under velvet skies of night
one star begins to glimmer
entering through a window
to fall so gently there upon
one rose within a vase
still opening because we love
its scent, its sight,
the essence of its being

as velvet soft, the night amends
a light that was too harsh to mend
this loneliness that endings seem to be
while within a glow, so sweet and low
that gently drifts unasked into our lives
comes a touch, so soft we slip into its dream
and love begins to heal the meaning
underlying all the beauty
that life in form was ever
meant to be . . .

?Michaelette?

11/21/2000
Copyright© 2000 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take Me Home...