Oklahoma Rose Rock
Something, something, there is something here…something like, perfection, something like worth…and I find myself wondering how clean will be clean enough? Something like acceptance, something unconditional, something like so much beauty in what is real, which is not perfect, and then, no perfect lines in nature, and what is a natural line? And well, I hear some words drift on the wind from days of yore, she said, it was okay if my linen closet wasn’t perfect before the guests came, they would judge it so harsh, the in-laws, but I never, they never, white glove in the dust, and then, hotel options or else, and this morning I preferred to spend an extra hour in the morning sun with the dogs, they so love the morning sun. Or something like that, and that poem by Rebecca, “When the Muse comes to visit,” and I said, “Come on in and tea, you know.” And, how do you want to spend the time you have been given? And, well, not dusting, dirt is. When dust draws a line in the sand or a red Rose grows in good dirt. And we colored pictures that day, just sat down in the middle of the unpacked boxes, and made memories. The picture isn’t finished yet, and yet, yet it is a Perfect Rose. The tears fall at the end of the trail and our memories make rock roses that cannot be washed away.