April 14, 2004


Once, I met a porcelain rose
Lying on the floor on the corner of a train.
Her pedals curved into a soft bulb
So precious and delicate
She begged to be cupped, cuddled, caressed
With the lightest touch
And the sunlight slipped over her ruby frame
And her scent conjured dreams
Sweeter than a field of poppies

And yet,
Only I seemed entranced by this gentle flower
All shades of men stepped
Over, and around, and behind, and sometimes on
The rose.
One or two snatched her from the ground,
Heaving her aroma with a great snort
Before dumping her
Back to the floor.
To them, my rose was just like any other bud
Decoration for the walls,
Or maybe an addition to a box of potpourri,
Mementos of flowers long since clipped and forgotten.
They make vases out of Yankees beer mugs
And ration out water until her pedals begin to wilt,
When the fa├žade rapidly comes to an end.
Perhaps they avoid the rose because of the thorns
She’s grown, not realizing that they themselves
Plant the seeds for such defenses.

But I’ve fallen in briar patches before,
And I see past the thicket of thorns to the flower underneath.
I see her on a pedestal in my home,
Embraced by a soft bed of earth,
Bathed in sunlight that finally lets her blossom
I see the eternal spring she can bring,
Because, you see,
I love the rose.

But, then, the bell rang, and I could see that
This was my stop,
So I had to leave her behind.

Copywright © 2001 by Damon A. Young

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