For You, a Rose

I have something to tell you my rose

(for you are a rose

though you may not know it,

though, you’ve yet to bloom)

I have something to tell you, and it is from the root

Of the roots that burrow deep into this world

Yet deeper than them still, for they come

From the pit of myself—from the measureless soul:


You are a boon to all seasons

(not just to mid-Spring, not just to late Fall)

For though you are budding, you are yet grown

Though your petals have not yet reddened,

And your thorns rutted it’s stem,

you dance with the sun, already

you cast your amorous kisses into the wind—


My rose, my rose, how beautiful you are

full of crimson stained-luster—flushed with life;

(and to think you my own, to think you as

beneath my lips, in the garden of my bed,

A dream—a lie, perhaps)


But now listen, and listen close,

For here is the bud from which all this shoots:


(and I say this from all that I am, from all that is true)


You will grow my rose—and you will grow rare;

For I see you now, little, precious inkling of a flower

So willing and wild and eager to spread her petals—

You will rise tall as trees and wide as meadows,

And you will touch with fire, all who

are lucky enough to cross your path—


For I see you now my rose,


(though still only budding,

though still only swaying her snug crown

in the breeze to find the source

of her pleasure)


A rose, far more enflamed with life

Then others bloomed.

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