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