My curtains flutter.
The cat licks itself in the doorway
and a box of silverware clatters
to the floor.

Who is raising that cloud of dust
in the distance, who is riding
hard on the road whose end is here
and whose beginning is there?

Tell the sick roses to think
of what they love best— what made
the sweetness in the nectary
before any bud burst from green.


In response to Via Negativa: The Sick Rose.

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