The Rose Garden
My mind is whisked away to the Rose Garden just now.
The last day of Maytime, or perhaps the first of June.
Mainz, Germany, cobblestone streets and the smell of fresh rainfall.
Two sisters and an old friend -
Sitting on a park bench, reminiscing of old times, late into the afternoon.
Laughing, encouraging, remembering.
Summertime calling us from around the bend,
while Springtime air still gently kisses our cheeks.
As we grow restless of chatter, we decide upon wandering
(as we do best)
After only a few minutes of strolling,
we stumble upon the Rose Garden.
magnificent with splendour
Roses both tall and low climb walls and wrap endlessly round one another.
A maze of red, yellow, white -
no, a palate of burgundy, cherry, magenta, buttercup, ivory,
lace, snow, violet, fire, blood, gold, indigo…
“Let’s find the one which smells sweetest,” says the old friend.
“We should only judge by color, and then see if we are right - no smelling ALLOWED!”
But the sisters laugh wildly,
for who in their right mind would choose NOT to smell a rose!
Though fully grown, we run about filled with childlike delight.
In all my life, no rose has smelled sweeter than all the roses in the Rose Garden.
The ivory is sickly sweet and the buttercup is gentle,
the magenta is poignant and loud, and the indigo faint and flirty.
But the burgundy… the burgundy is the most glorious of all!
“i’ve found it!” I cry, and drink deeply of its aroma.
The bees swarm in and out and around my head,
but I send them love, and they return it,
for they too know the sweetest rose of all.
The sister and the old friend feel I can’t be so sure,
thus we must have another go ‘round and smell them all once more.
Delight and roses envelope us in a dream world as we frolic about.
For an hour the Rose Garden is ours.
Our joy, our freedom, our life.
One of the fondest moments my memory can conjur.
Two sisters and an old friend,
Spring and Summer intertwined in the wind,
and The Rose Garden,
Our Rose Garden,
and the fire and the rose are one.
“To be conscious is not to be in Time. But only in Time can the moment in the Rose Garden be remembered… Only through time is Time conquered.” -T.S. Eliot