Take a hiatus
to the petal adorned
sidewalks,

floating above reflections
of a pale canopy
Puddles-
of which are
doors back to reality

When the rose, at dawn, unsealed its perfumed lips,  
A discourse, rich as velvet, from its petals slips.  
Each delicate bloom, kissed by the nascent sun,  
Revelled in beauty, where all things are undone.  

The breeze, a suitor with languid grace,  
Whispered, “Are you not perfection, clothed in this space?”  
But the rose, with a glance that was both proud and wise,  
Answered, “Perfection is naught but a lie in disguise."

The sun, all fire, with its golden sword,  
Declared, “In beauty alone, we must be adored.”  
But the rose, poised and regal in its bloom,  
Retorted, “It is in imperfection that we find room.”  

The dew, with a sparkle, like pearls on the sea,  
Asked, “Why, dear rose, this rapture in plea?”  
The rose, with a flourish and languorous sigh,  
Answered, “To live is to seek; to seek is to fly.”  

For power is born in the struggle to live,  
In beauty that dies, but has much to give.  
Excitement is born in existence’s call—  
In truth, we rise, and in truth, we fall.  

The rose knows, as all great souls must,  
That we are but moments—fleeting, yet just.  
And in every petal, with its silken grace,  
We glimpse the eternal in a mortal’s face.

The sun disappears much, much later, an hour later to be exact.
This translates into having more daylight and a longer afternoon,
To watch the strolling peacocks in the park, and to have more fun
Admiring the baby bulbs metamorphosing into flowers at night.

The lily flowers are most of the time ephemeral, lasting hours,
Rarely a few days before changing into leaves, which eventually
Will be dried up by the warm air or the rays of the sun. Beauty
Is temporary, so enjoy the spring season and the summer flowers.

I have vivid memories of the shedding cherry tree, which brought
The beauty of spring in front of my house in the dead-end street.
Oh! I miss the atypical moment, when the green lawn was not neat.

Sometimes, the entire top of the hill was littered with falling flowers.
It was strange to sniff the unusual scent of the weather-beaten petals.
Oh! I miss the hours sitting on top of the window like a distraught cat.

Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.