Does the gardener who so cherishes his roses,
Choke them beneath their blossoms
Yank them from their roots
To experience their fragrance,
To inhale & revel in their perfection & beauty?
Does he aggressively pull apart
The tight bud
To see deep inside,
Spy its nectar,
Steal its journey & life
To witness its essence?
No
He waits
He watches
He loves
He is patient & caring.
And when his roses do open
He sits among them in silence
What seems to be a dream
A reverie…
His heart opens to them
As they have for him
And he listens to their silent serenade
His body in bliss
His eyes wide open
His entire soul grateful
He rejoices & celebrates
For that which there are no words to describe;
And he loves
As he has never loved before
Infinitely, Deeply
With all of his might.
And late in the season
When the petals, like poetry spread across the grassy earth
In their transience,
Scatter and rhyme in pastel dignity,
He gathers some in his palm
Touches them
As though they were the hands of Angels.
He Smiles
With a quick child-likeness,
Purity Divine -
Tosses them from his praying palms
Showering himself in silken pink-red sun drops
Communing with God again
Feeling Heaven in his midst…
And proceeds to prune the thorny branches
With a delicate strength
Only the loving gardener can manage & comprehend.
I love you this way.
Do you love me this way?
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