Wait all the winter long for spring soft winds, rains and green in the warm for the roses.
The colors and scents seem to close a door to the world, yet open a window. Time in the garden, small though it is tends to take one away from the trial and strife of the day to day.
Or so it seems to me as I get into the roses and day to day see the roses run in life from cold winter roots, tiny shoots that become buds and blossom in late spring and summer.
There free and alone all the chit chat bird song and sound is absorbed by the images of summer as the roses are on the run.
Roses on the run, ever a joy. Here today and ever in memory.
Wonder not how sweet the blessing, but take and behold the wonder of the poetry in the fold of a rose.
Rose on the run no one can hold you forever. For we are also poetry held in the fold of the rose. There but for a moments grace we hold each other in the reality of a sacred image never frozen in time, for time is all time.
Rose on the run, petals in the sun rain on your brow smile as sweet as summer sounds spoken in silence against a screen door slapped shut in the wind. Spring held taught then wrap the buzz of night around you. None of the ghosts speak but rather sneak in your sheets and surround dreams tossing and turning as real as real is. In dreams as a rose on the run and reflections in the wine.
As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe