How can a rose that is not a thing
be blooming forever, like e-tern-al spring?
How can one flower in deep winter’s frost
continue to grow as if found, never lost?
How can her thorns bring only a smile,
when looking afar and into the while?
“How?” is a beggar of questions not asked,
reflected by beauty that someday unmasked
shall answer the when and the where of the place
the rose meets my hand and we see face to face . . .