(She had come determined to be enlightened, and dreamed of being sucked up
through the top of her head. Frightened, she woke: "I don't die!" I
had come wanting to make peace between my rational mind and spirit. I dreamed of
a lovely rose and bu8ilt this poem narrative around it.)
When I was a child
I found a rose and loved it,
So I took it to a scientist
who gave parts of it to other scientists
and said, "Come back later, kid"
I came back later, and
the scientist said, "here's your rose, kid."
and gave me a box. Then with pride,
"And this is our report."
handing me a thick stack of papers.
Later, alone, I looked in the box
and did not understand.
I raced through the report
looking for answers
and maybe some comfort
but found only dead Greek words
and dead Latin words
and what was now
in the box
my one dead rose.
I peeked again its scalpeled, drying petals,
their bruised and blackened spots-
and wished I were blind.
I hear again the distant, sanitized Greek and Latin
replacements for my rose-
and wished I were deaf.
I started to cry, but stopped,
as I caught the scent of the box-
My rose was not dead.
but expanding, leaving its sweet mark
all that is touched in its new journey.
Now, though I am much, much older,
My rose is still with me,
and these new tears are not of sorrow!
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