Holy Root

Where I live...if I live...I wonder, there is this flaming heat...that sear's all things, and there...this rose...this sweet rose...exist's...in this Phoenix place...a woman, long ago, told me...fear not the temp'ring of thy blade...years later came to be...and now, you hear a hiss...as mail boxes melt...in this mean heat...

yet, by my choice...and not regret...but only wait for things to be...and being went, one day...to a local department store chain...there...in a dreary hot, near mother's Day, the misted flowers sate...and drooped near dying...picking one sweet rose...whose scent was heaven...and undead, like all the rest...we gladly took to pay...

But some amiss, arose and there...the rose was taken 'way...because the stupid barcode wasn't read...as some fiasco then pursued...we questioned management, and they enjoined...that we should pick another rose...and go away...but we, my wife and I...we cleverly contrived to...pray, may we take this sorrowful thing...back to the garden bay...

We fairy flew, their ire rose...perhaps security was called...we were aroused, and took it anyway...for it's sweet scent was heavenly...the wheels on the cart... vibrating...shak'nly, as all cart's do, excepting one...that one we never roll...we placed the flow'r...before the tired clerk...who really didn't give a bitter squat...if we dropped dead...but took our coin and waved us on our way...

That little rose, you see, was meant to be...with us...it sits there in this horrid sun...yet, every blessed day...that rose grows stronger...as if root were made of iron...and the scent...unlike the other roses...gone away...is special, and is sweet...though only for an hour...and those leaves stay green...and buds return...as if a miracle...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015