If every raindrop carried
The scent of a wine-red rose,
It would drip with drunken poetry
And sustain like structured prose.
If every shaft of sunlight
Lifted a rose’s scent
It would trip over shards of sun
And slip off moonlight bends
And what about notes of music
That unfurl with a petal’s groove?
They’d dance with ephemeral bodies
While silence stood by and approved
Sometimes the benign redness
Though gentle, does not hide,
The story of how it got awashed
In a whelming crimson tide.
The history of the flower’s skin
Recedes as it gets yellow;
It got its scarlet lushness
When I cried blood into the pillow.