My mother gave me roses,

but,sad to say,the roses died

and my mother too,

"fell asleep" on just such an afternoon as this one.

And I did grieve for her

and the roses.

I cut them down with my secateurs

leaving just a few stumps.

One day,gazing contemplatively through a high window,

there,from the holly tree,

hung many garlands

Of wild white roses,

their faces gazing at me

in the bright sun

like so many angels welcoming me back

from sorrow's webs.

I know these ordinary miracles occur.

I've seen them.

but just now,in the garden,

I see the thick trunk of the white rose

which has leaped alone

From the stump ten feet into the air

Until it grasped the holly.

Are you saying that roses have no minds?

What made it cross that gap?

It is so strong it reminds me

That not even death itself is strong enough

To destroy Love.

Do you say

That a mother might not reach down,

Tempt the rose to heavenly sun, .

not being able to speak our language,

but sending me garlands of what she knew I loved.

and now after so many years

My white rose is stronger than

all the other plants.

Virtuosity is not the sole province of musicians.

Love too has its geniuses,

Here they are,plain looking, worn people

with lined faces and eyes dark yet luminous

within as if a light shines from their soul.

You can see them anywhere.

but you can't buy that light with any ordinary money.

It has its own life

Like my wild white roses.