A white rose is in my garden.
-- must have sprung up one day when the gardner was away
tiny velvet leaves unfurling in tentative
emerald wrinkles
awaiting the sun's unconditional warmth
It isn't tall or very bold.
-- but it is strong, I can tell. unswervingly true and pure as heaven
like a virgin bride the petals reveal themselves
so innocently beautiful
I cannot help but kiss their pearly coolness
It has no pretenses, I find.
Thoughtfully I have mused o'er its lonely countenance
for hours,
I sit among the grand hydrangeas on a mossy stone,
contemplating the whiteness, the dark green, the perfection.
What trials
brought a rose to me,
When did this angel
appear?
What have I done to deserve
a flower,
or perhaps this is a curse
in disguise?
Then, I laugh -- Oh! Foolish heart of mine!
Why do you wonder at miracles?
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