Mystic Rose

Where time is not my spirit seeks release,

Or press of life-desires, vital needs,

The endless recollections of the heart

And memories like scattered milkweed seeds

Blown across the vistas of the soul.

I know that good shall prosper and take root

For we shall harvest sheaves of consciousness

And softly as the playing of a lute

Will live to hear a music sweet and fair,

Partake of vision from those realms above

Descending here and rising from below

When earth is touched by healing feet of love.

The joy we yearn for now shall draw us close

As petal by petal opens the mystic rose.