We were a single rose
when you tried to separate me
from he, True Vine, and cut me off,
calling me a thorn in your flesh,
offering nothing but pain.

You thought him dead and gone
but saw value in the story,
using it to suit your need,
casting aside the tender reed,
treating me with disdain.

Still I loved you because
he taught me to abide in him
and dance free in truth, no matter
how surprising. You cut me off
even though we were a single rose.

Half-spent this night of a life
and yet it will not die but springs
ever into palest life, the thorn
and stem and the flower of this love
and its singularity.