wherefore art thou

when I was a boy I didn’t realize a rose could open

they always died curled up

as if each petal was trying to escape

then when they dried

no one mourned them

the beauty of their early death was wasted

tossed aside with the food scraps

as if the love they represented were not worth keeping

“what’s in a name?” asks juliet

does a dead rose not still smell as sweet

lavender’s fragrance does not fade

so why dear rose do you not keep

when pressed between the pages

to dry on a shelf somewhere in-between

alchemy and mysticism

can you be turned to gold

ah

only once you’ve spread your petals

does your scent penetrate the nose

and so off in the distillery

they condense you down to oil

your preservation boiled down

to be sold without an image

such beauty reduced to a single sense

are those thorns really so frightening

only if not handled with gentle care

and an understanding

that those spikes allow such beauty to flourish

to climb the balconies in verona

and stare of toward the azure sea