Wild Rose
roses
for as far
as the eye
can see
they grow
in places
remote
as such
off the path
or down the barrel
in seasons
dew and dust
where no tourists
claim to touch
for there’s palatial plenty
as such
cultivated and temperate
in hot houses
they bloom
on time
already pressed
kissed for the occasion
their fate sealed in the seed
the bouquet of the day
whether it be
a promise
a note
a sonnet
a vow
an apology
or a parting
of ways
the bygone day
roses seem to say
what we couldn’t say
their petals float
in backyard puddles
and Parisian canals
they serve as confetti
in the air
and condolence
on the ground
symbolizing something
quite dear
strength and beauty
hard pressed
between the pages
of joy and pain
but the wild ones
grow
for neither
pain nor joy
they bloom
without want
of plan
or need
of purpose
they dress no table
no gown
no coffin
no door
no knee
no aisle
no holiday
no parade
no prom
no ballet
no some
thing
to say
they just are
as they are
without expectation
or explanation
worry or want
there is no
pre-paid order
backlogs
or quotas to fill
no gardens to gaze
or nurseries to tend
or castles to vase
or derby to race
or manicured lawns
or runways in Milan
a wild rose
grows
as it is
for no particular reason
on no particular day
of the week
or the month
or the year
or the season
as it were
as it was
as it will
be
it just is
TL