When man catches the wild wind
And a screen protects us from the rain.
When all flowers’s scent is sweet but, somehow the same.
When all rough edges are smoothed away
And the grain of the wood is lost
A few men may, perchance, count the cost.
Doors close on innocence that knows
A girl in her short summer dress.
Does she suspect?
A budding rose.
Men traverse long dark roads
The empty hours.
Scentless flowers
Time devours man’s fleeting powers
The below poem by the American poet, Emily Dickinson is deceptive in it’s simplicity. The final 2 lines arrest the attention of the reader,
“Ah Little Rose — how easy
For such as thee to die!”.
Nobody Knows This Little Rose By Emily Dickinson
Nobody knows this little Rose —
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it —
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey —
On its breast to lie —
Only a Bird will wonder —
Only a Breeze will sigh —
Ah Little Rose — how easy
For such as thee to die!
The flower radiant with spring’s promise glows
The bee of sweet nectar sups, tarries perchance awhile then goes.
Scentless
Solitary flower
White table cloth.
“Its artificial” my friend remarks.
“No, its real” I say, my fingers touching petals soft as oh too perfect skin.
We drink. The candle illumines a thing neither living or dead.
Full of promise, oh fragile flower, your loveliness passes in but an hour. Your scent overpowers me, giddy with desire, this fire rages hot and dies in an hour.
Beautiful red rose your petals barely opened. Your scent overpowers me, I am giddy with desire. Softly I stretch out my fingers gently caressing your petals. A thing so lovely and delicate so easily destroyed. Oh to possess you rose, to pick and make you mine. Once picked your splendour fades you are a thing no longer desired, onto the compost heap you go your sweetness forgotten forever.
K Morris - Poet 