The Rose

The Rose For Mother’s Day
A rose I begged.
And then,
Once I had tired of it,
Often moved it place to place.
No more wanting it to decorate
With bloom and green,
And so it seemed
To me a burden.

And then
A thought came to my mind,
Of Jonah finally seeing it.
And to his little room it went.
And oh, my son,
With wondrous gaze,
Reminded me
With lighted face,
Had never seen such petaled grace.
And so, I put it on the window sill.

When evening came
I moved the rose,
Surely he had seen his fill.
But when my darling son awoke,
He saw it missing from the sill.
And panic whispering to him,
Turned his frantic looks about the room,
Grabbed my hand
(What desperate moves…)
‘Tell me please, who took my rose?’

And so,
I brought it back to his small place,
Upon the window sill he faced.
His rescued damsel in distress,
Was now there blessed,
Was now content.

She is not the sweetest one I’ve known,
But to him,
She is the only Rose.
To him,
She is the reddest red,
With him
She’ll sleep beside his bed,
For she, the blush of boyish love,
Is now alive,
Is now with breath,
Is now with feeling, blood and pulse.
Now more than what she was before,
Will take her root at his wood floor.
There she will live
And she will die…
Both under his small and watchful eye.

(And I,
Beholding her in holy light,
Left his little room and cried.)

Reproduced with permission of
Jennifer Darr