How wise <br />the rose? <br /> <br />near the shortest day, <br />the seasons all confused this year <br />even the great globe itself <br />confused by man <br /> <br />and on this gusty day <br />a rose throws <br />itself upon the world <br />simultaneously hero, heroine, victim <br />seen calling through the window; <br />if it were a child alone out there <br />you would rush out to save it <br /> <br />does the rose know <br />how beautiful it is? <br /> <br />or is it wiser than we are, <br />knows more of love? <br />of law? <br />looks tenderly upon <br />man’s need for beauty, <br />frail reassurance <br />of the beauty of our own soul <br /> <br />any moment now <br />the wind will tear its weakening petals <br /> <br />yet I saw it while it lasted, as if <br />the only rose in the world <br /> <br />and before it returned <br />to wherever the souls of roses <br />sigh, laugh, smile, <br />return to eternal Rose <br /> <br />it wrote this poem in – to it – <br />an unfamiliar language <br />that tried to translate <br />its beauty into me <br /> <br />wiser, in some way, <br />than I<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0011-blown-rose-wise/
