My mother gave me white roses
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.