Spring rays lick familiar peaks,
Ignite the countless pearls of dew,
Tag dancing shadows Ďneath the peaks,
Grant clarity to natureís hues.
Though yesterday such beauty logged,
Now callous, all escapes my gaze,
ĎTill as if burning valley fog,
A single beam consumes my daze.
Amidst the thicket, moss and mire,
Flora heretofore concealed,
Illumined, that gods may admire,
One solitary bud revealed.
Upon approach I view itís bloom,
Slumbering passions bid to flow,
I lay the blade to make mine own,
This virgin alabaster rose.
Drawn by its beauty, firm I grasp,
Across my lips silk petals slide,
Subsumed by warmth, I long will last,
Its gift of fragrance undenied.
Its form Ďtill death I pray to view,
This bloom of constant purity,
But hand holds not this blossomís fate,
Not mine, but if it were to be . . .
When laid to my eternal rest,
My soul from body finally free,
Iíd wear this rose upon my chest,
My trove, for heavenís host to see.
But order overcomes my will,
In need of drink, the blossom turns,
Now frigid from some bitter chill,
I seek the cause, devotion spurned.
In days to come, my anguished lot,
Iíll ponder, head in thorn scarred hands,
And pray the Spirit of the Earth,
Breathe life into this rose again.
*** Copyright 7/03 Ed Adair ***