Broken petals

I name her rosebud,
but really she's a whole garden.
She dances through the desert of my hungry heart,
and flowers blossom from her every fruitprint
like dewfall, like starfall.

Sometimes her pathway takes her over the hill
and I can no longer see her blossoming,
but the wind carries her perfume to me,
and I breathe her in like the Spirit of life
which inspired me on the day I was born.

Sometimes I discover broken petals in my pocket,
rich as the day she shed them into my arms;
I bury my face in them
and she is with me once again,
as if she had never gone away.

I lie abed of a Sunday
meditating upon the reality
with which she reddens the evening skies of my days.
I need these times of separation
so I may discover her anew.

And then to close my eyes in sleep,
knowing that whatever I may dream of and forget,
the sweet scent of memory will never be forgotten.

17/08/08, 3.35pm, Wortley Hall