I speak in roses.
Each
imperfect
a whole
more beautiful
than its parts
may suggest
dark leaves
concealing
silent thorns
that snag and prick
a negligent grasp
fractal petals
wrapped round
a perfumed
mystery
tight at their
blood red heart
no one knows
the full meaning
of any rose
least of all
me
each surprises
growing its own
strange way
hothouse
garden
or essential wild.
Listen.
I speak in roses.
Can you
hear them
yet?
