The Roses Story

The Rose’s Story

In the dark morning, mist rolls up around my stem. I soak it in as my heavy dark crimson head opens its’ petals, just a little more than yesterday.


As the earth sloughs off the dark, a golden orb strobes through the trees and lights my head with droplets of gold.




I exhale deep scents and quiver gently as the morning wind picks up.

Above me are myriads of spider webs, strung out like glittering treasures.







I live again.

The night’s cold dissipates.

My stem is rooted deeply upon a mound of rich ashy dirt. I see with eyes I do not have, things that have no form to see. Life pulses, scratches, and inches about my roots. Long fleshy worms, and things so small they have no names populate the world below the ground. A world as much mine as the one above. And just as necessary.

I see inside a window and she is looking back at me. We join for the moment because my beauty gives her pleasure and opens her heart. I go in bringing my scent and the secrets that I carry. Secrets formed by the laws of the universe, which are easily understood in the pattern of my petals.








She knows. I know she knows.




I reflect the very small and the very large, like she who regards me. Both of us are part of the creative force with laws and rules of design binding us to each other consciously for this moment but unconsciously for all time.



All the universe is in my flower. All the universe is in she who regards me for my loveliness.


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Therese Mackay
August 2005