Once in summer’s end
a rose garden held
just one rose:
a bud, afraid to bloom
In her anguish to be seen,
petals froze—
afraid of breaking
Can she die before
she lived?
God knows well of ashes’ death
how from dust
life shall return
At the touch of one love
petals tremble and beg
—This hand—
to listen to the Wind;
it stopped shivering,
living no trace
Invisible words never spoken
escaped sealed mouths
full of secrets
There’s a distance
an ocean’s length
silent by years of blinded Sun
How many roses
one hand can hold?
Only one or perhaps
two or three;
but thorns have no mercy
even in dreams they bleed—
Denude a rose one petal at a time.