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On my way back to Mr. Brown’s,
A place I don’t want to call home,
I always take the hard path
Through the Seamans’ fields
That skirt Lake Cemetry.
Black jackets
And an oak casket
Bobbing among bent heads
Of the pall bearers.
I am in the way, again.
I scurried to the side of the field.
Suddenly — a sweet smell
So different
From the Death marching by:
Clumps of wild roses
Stubbornly growing
At the edges of the field,
Pushing up their heads
To the mottled sky,
Flinging their perfume into the air.
They’re all weeds to Mr. Seaman.
He has his tenants,
Like Mr. Brown,
Hack the roses down,
Red petals dripping.
My father had a dream
When my mother was barren
Of a Rose blooming
At the center of the universe
That no evil could touch.
The next day my mother conceived.
Men have been trying to get rid of that Rose
Curse it
Claw it
Cut it
And still it blooms
Scorned beauty is beauty still
Beauty crucified is beauty still
Beauty that dies
Is beauty reborn still
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
And God sees all
Even wild roses
At the edges
Like me
Even the wilted bodies
Cased in oak
At the sight of His face
Will burst forth
And bloom.
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