Bud of the Mystic Rose

The scattered leaves are left alone

Lying where they fell,

The grass unkempt, no twig or stone

Removed, the crows rebel

Against my presence in the glass.

Mallard families fly

And hawks perform a circling pass,

Watchers of the sky.

I have become an enigma's knot

Unknowing and sadly, blind,

A speck or insubstantial dot,

A dull unconscious mind

That struggles vainly to no avail

To grasp such tragedy,

Each test along the Way I fail,

Night my company.

All is strange and strangely still

A dark and yawning gap,

Absent of the driving will,

Caught in memory's trap.

How long this emptiness shall reign

Only the spirit knows

Till light shall open up again

The bud of the mystic rose.