Rose

We arrived here on fire,

my husband with fever, me

smoldering with fear about

what’s next. The world is -- our lives are --

in flames.

 

In my mother’s garden, we

drink cool water in the shade of

Erik’s Tree, towering now in the forty

years since my son planted it as a boy.

Has it been ten days, ten months, ten years

since we left home?

We will never return to what was.

 

In the shade of Erik’s Tree, a rose tilts its head.

I feel the tiny heft of her breath on my skin.

In shades of apricot and pink,

she beckons: Come.

 

So I rise in obedience to beauty,

slip between the cool sheets of

her petals. Drawing attention

to her heart, she shows how the center is held

by the outer petals layer by layer.

She shows how they, in turn, are

held by sturdy sepals, and

the sepals are held by a slender stem, which is

held by roots reaching deep, deep, deeper.

The roots are embraced by soil teeming with life, and

the soil is held by an earth spinning in the arms of

the yearning sun. The sun is held by bright galaxies

and all this, yes all of it, is held together

by a trinity of Joy, Gravity,

Love.

 

Then she notes how her outer petals

are curling with age.

Nothing lasts forever, she says.

You too will wither (are withering),

and all you love will be transformed.

The center becomes the seed. But for now,

Dear One, hold close

to this center, curl up in

its fragrance. Let the tempest

rage. Let the fires burn.

(It is true, the fire and the rose are one.)

In this moment, in this breath,

you too are held.