I was walking out the front door and noticed the Mr. Lincoln rose was particularly beautiful. I used my cell phone to snap a pic. The water droplets didn’t come through as crisp as I would have liked…you can see the sheen of the droplets. This rose is a fragrant reminder of my mom’s love of roses. First generated in 1964, the rose was transplanted from my folk’s house after their deaths and the sale of their home.
I saw this today, provided as a form of farewell tribute for a sweet woman, Marianne Matthews, that had just passed. Included was her rendition of The Last Rose of Summer, sung in 1954. I found it touching enough to share.
‘Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
My rose is blooming:
it’s forgotten it’s autumn.
And now – so have I!
Early morning in the back yard. Birds chirping. Cat in the window looking out, tail swishing. A bed of roses neglected this Summer. My Mom’s roses transplanted here after her death. Old roses. Sentimental roses. I see one beautiful rose in magnificent repose. The others, past their prime, chastise me. ‘Where have you been?’
This whole writing thing is indeed a challenge. Things, now, just pop into my brain in fragments. Are they worth compiling into something meaningful, at least to me? Soon enough patterns emerge. But, oh my, sometimes they seem a bit dark. And, to what end is served by putting them forth?
As noted elsewhere, there does not have to be an ‘answer’ but merely a song.
So, I sit, thinking on how to sing. Hmmm? My thoughts are not always comfortable and I tire of reviewing them, let alone writing about them. Visuals pop into mind.
Photography is an enjoyable means to an end. Look, I loaded that beautiful rose. I felt compelled to write about it. Not from some technical aspect. No, I wanted to build some silly story with analogies of growth, pruning, buds, dead heading, new growth. Ugh! Forget that.
I once spoke before a group of medical professionals. Later, in a publication by that group, I was referred to as the “dark, sensitive poet”. I assumed for a very long time that ‘dark’ meant my dark brown hair and beard. ‘Poet’? I just felt I had an innate ability to talk in flowery bursts.
Today, I suspect, that inside this whirlwind of mental sorting and the sometimes dense fog that encroaches, is a stranded little guy waiting to be found, a blanket thrown around his shoulders and a hug given.
Is this coastline marked with lighthouses?
It takes so little effort to amend
an argument, or straighten out the bend
a road oft takes. Forgive the careless word
that flits around you like a little bird.
Please realize that this might be the hour
you leave the earth, so sniff the red rose flower
and praise the trees that stand there mighty, tall.
The spring, the summer, winter, and the fall
have given you a panoramic view,
provided excellence, each season new
in character and dress. You leave the seed
within your words, plant wisdom others read.