I know I just arrived in Peru and I should be writing about that, BUT I have had this blog saved for a little while and so decided to post this first. Blogs on Peru are on the way.
Every time I arrive home my mom likes to put fresh flowers in my bathroom. I think it brings her joy to be able to add beauty. And such is the purpose of flowers, is it not? They are beauty in portable, handheld form; beauty for beauty’s sake. This morning I went into my bathroom and looked upon the dozen roses she had put there three weeks ago that had since died and still, even in their droopy state, enjoyed them because of who put them there.
And so I wrote this poem and dedicate it to you, Mom. Thank you for wanting to make things beautiful. I hope you enjoy this. Love always, Meredith
And So, Dear Rose
‘Tis a curious thing, how the rose dies
‘Twixt flowers fair and softly fragrant
None is more discussed than she.
Sweetly idle is her perfumed aura
In shades of lover’s dawdling kiss.
When thorns plunge a scorned love’s hand
Such a perfect pain is born from beauty.
And when death has crept from the slumbering eves
The rose bows its delicious plumes,
And quietly weeps petals.
Where flowers fair are limp near death
Stalks succumb and it’s whole life
Oozes stamens, pollen, petals, leaves
Dear friend, Rose, stands straight in stalk
Tipping from her fair head-cup
Retaining beauty in muted tones
And of flowers fair and softly fragrant
‘Tis it not our friend Rose who in dried arrangement
Remains in glass display—
Still beautiful, still lovely
We remember said love’s kiss
And hands which entrusted dear Rose to us
Now fraught with stale fragrance
We forgive the rose and recreate the
Palatial sugared scent in quiet memories
And so, dear Rose bows out
A brilliant, non-belabored performance
Such is why ‘twixt flowers fair and softly fragrant
None is more discussed than the rose.
