The Rose Garden Woman
The old woman sits in her rose garden,
shaded by the high-rise next door
and contemplates her oncoming
eightieth birthday.
Reflecting on past decades,
she recalls the days of her youth
when she loved the roses for their
glorious colors
soft petals
and flawless form.
Laughingly, she also recalls that those
same passions produced pricked fingers
and spiteful retreat.
However, seasons past and passions matured,
tempered by her desire to see
the roses grow.
Now she loves the roses
not just for their obvious beauty,
but also because she knows their needs
as if they were her own.
She knows what they like and don't like
and pleasures herself in their fulfillment.
Young schoolkids walk by,
wearing the bright colors of current fashion,
and notice what apparently she isn't.
The rose garden woman understands.
She knows that the rosebush has
both young buds and full bloomers;
roses that have yet to be and
roses whose only remains have long since
been scattered by the wind.
She loves them all equally,
appreciating Beauty,
in evolution.
Every so often one of the young schoolkids
will reach over the fence and
grab at one of the roses,
pricking a finger much to their surprise.
And every so often the rose garden woman
smiles
a compassionate smile.
John Ostlund index