Within the rose

The mystic rose

Rises the fragrance of only the misted

Echoes

Of wind and rainbows.

There, there is no death, blank-faced

And cold, but only the blue

Wings of the sky.

No songs of shadows

But only those

Lilting, cloud-laced

Songs the moon

Might hum

While walking, clad in her glad gown

Beside the riverbank.

No scarecrow of injustice, twisted

Bent

But only the iridescent

Eye

Of the mountain sheep

Dancing with her lamb

Among the high

Summer snows.

Within the rose

Happen only the going forth in flight

And the returning to

The Great Soul of the Night

Who will ever keep

Dream and event

Beginning

And ending

In her shining circled hands of starlight

Within the mystic rose.

 

© Sharon St Joan

Written around 1993

 

Photo: Philipp Haupt from Zug, Switzerland / Wikimedia Commons / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license. / Bighorn lamb in Alberta, Canada