Monday, November 13, 2006


She carried a single rose
to this ceremony,
as they all did,
but she knew its value,
carried it close,
shared its beauty with few.

Of the windblown meadow
and tangled wood, this flower,
of the salt sea and earth.
And into his unsteady hand
she placed this rose,
trusted the touch of the gardener,
the trembling jaws of the wolf.

And the wind blew the grass
and sang of love to the pines,
just as though this was the way
the world had always been.

- Ralph Murre

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