wildwestwind: The Rose

Michael's Fáilte

Welcome to these writing warmups, blatherings, rantings, meditations, perorations, salutations, latest and those on time, those narrative, declarative, interrogative, gollywogative and other outdated, belated, simulated musings, perusings, shavings and other close calls, with no disrespect intended, that's why no real names included whenever impossible to avoid the guilt that came in the crib for uttering something that would hurt or injure those in authority, being of everlasting servitude to all and sundry, having chosen the road not taken and the frost on the pumpkin long before the kettle turned black or the cat found its own tail fascinating,
Your humble servant, etc.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The Rose

There is a secret in those folds
where conversation's scent withholds
its pastels and silks——where memory
lifts its blooms, each small glory
reaching and reaching from its wood
through the bracken, bad or good,
planted or forsworn——
up and up the thorns
our best intentions climb
the deadly scimitars of time
while drops of blood fall now and then
to find forgotten ground and start again.