With something drifting and something shifting, the earth still held the sky.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Today I sat stunned before a dark rose. It had turned a deep violet, the colour of a poisoned wound. The petals parched at the touch of a fingertip. It stood old and wise, and yet proud with its petals unfurled and crisp. Now, it wouldn't be stroked or caressed. It had been the fragile chalice; it was now the grave gauntlet.
More than the tenderness of a bloom is the pride of a wilt.