I saw the rose bloom in thorns, her petals pierced
And bloody, her scent metallic, her countenance,
Once sanguine, sanguine no more, but pained,
Burned by the sun, depressed by the darkness
That since that horrid November had blotted
Out the moon until even the owls ceased to hoot.
I saw the rose refuse the bouquet and the vase,
Her stalk stubborn but sad like parched soil
Awaiting rain in the dry season,
And watched the dew fall like tears with silent sobs
That none but the mystic morn could hear.
I saw the rose bloom in thorns and held her close,
Her pain drawing hope—
The hope that rebellion is ne’re for naught
When the rebel has beauty and nature on her side.
Time passed, and the Earth let us sleep and dream
In her cool embrace.
Rested, we rose and stretched toward a smiling sky,
Two relentless rebels, two inveterate dreamers.
At last we were soaked by storms, pollinated
By righteousness, swallowed by the sounds
Of all that sings because singing is what it is born to do;
For nothing—not evil, not ignorance, not the
Temporary defeat of goodness—can stop
The beautiful world from flowering
When it is time for life to flower.
Sunday, October 15, 2017