The Mystery of the White Rose

The Mystery of the White Rose


By F. Ellsworth Lockwood

November 5, 2007

A beautiful woman called today.
In her right hand, she bore a White Rose.
The flower she held was meant for me,
And immediately I wanted to become her lover.

I found no vase to hold her flower,
So I placed her in some water
In a plain old drinking glass.
Perhaps that was my mistake. Who knows?
I should have been more Aware,
Of how a Pure White Flower grows.

Before I knew
She was in my arms, this precious lass.
Our lips met and then
We melded so close together
I felt as if we were One.

But that was not yet to be.
We kissed, and hugged,
And kissed again
And then...

And then she sat up
Straight and tall,
"I should not be here with you like this!
This is something I cannot do at all."

And she turned away
Ran back down the hill
And I was left to stand in the door and watch her.
To watch her and to wonder,
Until I recalled he Mystery, of the White Rose.

I turned to see what remained then,
And there upon my counter,
Except for the bud, the stem was bare.
Without a leaf, not a single one,
Though leaves were still in season.

And as the girl ran down her path
I soon saw the Reason;
The leaves, all edged in black as if by poison,
Had shriveled up and died.
Died right on the stem, then fallen asunder.

Yet the rose still clung to the poisoned vine,
As if wishing to be plundered.
So my hand moved tentatively,
As if searching how best to pick Her.

And just as I gazed upon the rose,
She started to unfurl.

Faster and faster as the girl ran away,
Her petals showed their splendor.
So I sat and I wept,
There in my kitchen,
Watching in amazement,
The miracle of growth before my eyes
As the bud became a flower.

I reached again,
Just to touch the lovely stem.
But then I had to stop,
For first one petal fell to the table
And soon followed another.

So then I retreated to my chair
And I sat and I watched, and I breathed her sweet air,
As I observed her gentle unfolding.
And sitting there, all alone ... as alone as alone could be,
I cried as I pondered ...

The Mystery of The White Rose.
#poem #poetry #rose #love