The rose is dark red, almost
maroon,
and
flat after sleeping between pages
of
a volume for most of a century.
Its
blossom died before I was born,
two
green leaves beneath their mistress’ cup
like
angels holding up an idea
that
still lives in musty, printed death.
There
is a hint of perfume left,
unless
it is nothing more
than
molecules of imagination
that
see a green stem and thorns
and
the black clod of earth
from
which they were born.
There
is a love story here, to be sure.
The
flower was tendered and received,
perhaps
held close to a bosom breathing
with
the hope of life after marriage vows.
The
love affair lives on
between
pages two-hundred-and-eighty
and
two-hundred-and-eighty-one.
I
can only wonder how many pages
were
left to be read,
how
many deeds were done.
Hopefully,
it was a long story
filled
with days and years
and
all of the necessary things
that
needed to be said
on
rainy days, under the moon,
in
the marriage bed,
or
while walking down a country road,
where
because of its winding path and view,
it
was known that magical roses grew.
~William Hammett
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