One Asks for Mournful Melodies
+On the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord
The little white rose-bud
that has been growing up to blossom
through the winter is in full bloom.
As she grew, she remained a solitary rose
with not another to join her, for she grew
above the thorny budless stems beneath her.
Risen above the rest, she has weathered
the wintering chills–her outer-most petals
lightly browned, frostbitten in the night.
And yet, on this day, she blooms! The chilled dew
has dappled her with the sum of fourteen freckles,
each one, my blooming eye, afraid, beholds–
receives the fall and rise of one house
marked by the beauty born by happy hues
in her spotted shades of lapis lazuli.