I have never liked Roses, a snooty flower,
I thought, an English garden cottage flower,

a pain-in-the-neck  and needy flower,

a temperamental and delicate thing.

This week, someone sent a Rose into my house,

and the Rose settled in,

then sniffed at me in the afternoon light,

“well, I don’t care for you either, silly man,” she said,

“you are nothing much to look at yourself,

you know nothing about flowers, you just chase

after your colors like some drunk in a bar looking for whiskey.”

Perhaps it is time to reconsider one another,  she said,

you have no taste,

and I have little time.

Then she turned towards the fading sun in the window,

waiting for my answer She spoke again:

“Now is the time to understand that all of your ideas about beauty,

of right and wrong are just toys for the crib, the playthings of a child.

I am a divine envoy, the Beloved and the Holy One

has written a sacred message on my petal, only the

wise can see it. You, I am sure, are blind.”

Tell me, old man, she continued, more reflectively,

“why do you still throw stones

at your own heart, what voice inside of you stirs

you to anger and fear and ignorance?

How can you be so old and know so little?

Now, at last, is the season for you to know,

once and for all, that every single thing you

think and do and see and write is sacred.”

Including me, she said,

with a flourish.

All right, I said,

I wish to live in love and truth.

There is nothing but Grace.