What was said to the rose
that made it open
was said to me
– Rumi
How many
times
How many times had I
turned
the corner of the barn
along side the gray
splintered redwood siding
a flash of color
yellow tipped red petals
of a rose
just a single stem
pulled by the afternoon
sun
a flower springing from rocks
and gravel
How many times had I been
here and not seen it
my mind, my thoughts remote,
my jaw hard
it was planted when
the barn was built
by a worn-out farmer’s wife
looking for some
sweetness in her life
she presented
this gift to the world
maybe he would see it
and it would soften
his heart
but he never did
passing back and forth
all his life
and when he died, she
buried him
covering his grave
with rocks as hard as his heart
How many times had I passed by here?
maybe it was the angle of the
sun
or perhaps the dying afternoon
breeze
How many times?
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