How delicate it is, the garden of eternity.
Interwoven; the past, present, future
of our sleepy meadow, dear.
One cannot possibly know how
or what
the wind of today will drift to the valley
of tomorrow.
One can only hope to gather roses in arms
and lay them down, admired.
But what of tomorrow?
A dried rose is surely a beauty.
A delight preserved from time gone by.
Take these roses, fine.
Take this heart
and scatter my soul freely
into the arms of the dreamers, next.
Tomorrow’s rose.
Today’s quiet and careful sun.
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