The lone late rose

Published on Mogul

The lone late rose cut -
from thorns and bramble,
uprooted from limbs as legs,
and burnt sienna skied roots.

The lone late rose,
a most holy November
one of Indian summers,
of love lost,
re-birthed
and blessed.

The lone late rose
upon Italian marble,
stoic and bold,
beauteous and courageous,
sits. 

The lone late rose cut
as cheeks blushed,
as sweet cherry bitters,
slender and heavenly,
like Madonna and child,
like daVinci sketching
a divine revelation
on canvas.

The lone late rose was cut,
and the wind howled,
and the heavens cried,
and the lone late rose
not once complained,
yet wept, in silence.


The lone late rose
sent supplications
to the dirt and silt,
eve after eve,
grateful to be alive,
yet oh, ever so lonely.

And the lone late rose woke
to a most Vesuviant dawn,
one of mythology and magic,
one of precious hands
as angels wings,
embracing her existence,
pure.

And the late rose
was no longer lone,
and blooming beside her
was another lone late rose. 


And together
they adorn one another,
on Italian marble,
with cheeks blushed,
as sweet cherry bitters,
slender and elegant,
like Madonna and child,
like daVinci sketching,
a divine revelation. 

Phrase "The lone late rose cut" and photo © Edmund Cardoni
*This poem was inspired by photos posted by Mr. Cardoni when a single rose was cut in November during winter and after it was brought into the house, a pure white rose bloomed beside it.