I have touched roses
when only tiny buds,
on refined stems–
roses I would sometimes rob
of their primal bloom.
I have probed their
hidden textures,
their scents still green.

I have held roses
at their loveliest,
clad with dew drops.
Their fragrance filled me
with an unknown longing.
I sought and found answers
for their concentric turnings.

I have tasted ripe
roses in full bloom,
dispatched the flowers
devouring them hips and all.
Immersing myself
in their sultry luxury,
I inhaled their thick musk.

Wound in roses
I continue to contemplate
their complexity
and their source.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved