My Lady of the Roses
There is talk of roses
And I think of you.
There is talk of you
and I think “roses”.
The rose reflects your soul
and you reflect your roses.
Your roses. Pruned, nurtured, tended, loved.
Perfect for that is your desire.
Natural but perfect.
Every rose in the right place.
And every rose, every plant, is there
because that’s what you have decreed.
They respond gratefully to you, as to the sun and rain.
You are for them the sun and rain.
Rosemary and thyme, tarragon and sage,
sweet basil and the common parsley.
They too have a place in your garden.
Wisteria, peonies, iris.
No end of lizards.
But you remain forever the lady of the roses.
A mother surrounded by her children.
You know them all – Serenissima and Prelude, Sans Souci,
the delicate pink Feeling, and white Iceberg.
Then there is Rita Levi Montalcino –
and you love the rose even though you can’t stand the name.
For you, your roses are unique,
for you love each and every one
(my apologies to Le Petit Prince!).
A garden reflects the passing of time,
of the seasons, of the years,
the tempests over which you have no say
and the havoc that they play.
It reflects the seasons of your life.
Your garden is the mirror of your soul,
of the soul of its creator.
Which leads me to ask
Is then the world the mirror of the soul of God?