The room is filled
with the aroma
of the rose,
coral pink
with veins of deep orange,
that had been
plucked by the gardener
and pressed to its essence,
the exquisite rose
that had bloomed in the garden
and opened to the sun,
beaming like the face of a child.
with the aroma
of the rose,
coral pink
with veins of deep orange,
that had been
plucked by the gardener
and pressed to its essence,
the exquisite rose
that had bloomed in the garden
and opened to the sun,
beaming like the face of a child.
apg 4.11.12
I wrote this poem to reflect on how I have experienced Rahima since her death: physically absent, yet very much present, as if in the atmosphere. Have you felt Rahima's presence since her passing? How so? ~Andy
I read this poem last night at the monthly poetry group that Rahima and I attended and often hosted in our home.
ReplyDelete~Andy