Fresh-Picked Roses
From Modern Dreams
A rose is lying in the summer mud—
The dew still fresh from when it fell last night.
A phoenix sinks into a sea of sands—
See how the midnight sky outshines the day?
It’s true—a comet burns one moment then
It fades and scatters on the cosmic surf.
But Hector too had breathed his final breath,
Then like a comet vanished in the depths.
A boy is dreaming on a backyard swing;
He smells the lilacs, but he picks a rose.
He has his dreams, some dark, some bright, some light
And pure like laurel sprigs or mountain streams.
He picked the rose—its beauty unsurpassed;
He picked her though he feared her thorns—he had
A fear of fear itself, a love of love—
The love of other and the love of self.
The rose we place inside our lover’s hands
Is like the dreams we place in our own hands.
When fresh-picked roses fall into their hands,
Our dearest hopes and dreams are placed there too.
Dreams too—like roses and like love have thorns,
But oh the joy of picking our own rose.
From Modern Dreams.
David B. Gosselin is a poet, translator, writer, and researcher based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse and hosts Escaping the Brave New World.
Beautiful, insightful, and thought provoking. Thank you.
Wouldn't it be better to use 'pluck' rather than 'pick'? Since it is only too easy to read 'picks a rose' as 'picks his nose'. It's always of the utmost importance to be aware of dangers like this.