Will This Flower Be

by To Be Determined

Be near enough to me, Rose, that I might swallow thee
Only not to macerate but germinate inside the soul’s soil
Learn the tongue of an unknown man. Will this flower be
Like any other flower and simply live its life until composted
Or will this flower be unlike all the others and in doing so
Provide Art an imagination it had not known needed naming.

The tongue, at first, needs a little space to taste the breath
It shapes to know if it must to survive. Not all breath needs
The shape of these words in its reflexive act for survival,
Young poet, but survival depends on how you fill the space
With roses that emerge from that soil your soul cultivated,
Perhaps only God will hear your garden’s song, but sing, still.
He, being the Word, knows better than all others if Poets must
Speak to Art’s imagination or just wallow in Narcissus’ pond.

With thanks to Yeats and Rilke



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