Stone Roses

Not having found them
littering my road
nor at walking end of long day
weary, almost fallen over,
I carve stone roses,
as a smith forges them,
from one chunk of limestone.

Holy, holy...

Stepped on by an archangel Rose
in our wilderness,
leaving imprint of a foot
with heel and toes, little satellite toes
splayed out between crustacean shells,
a stone hid behind a fence of prickers overgrown,
wild roses, white roses, holy roses, my soul.

Mind eye discerning shape
cuts away excess, petals
remnants, tailings.

I sift through tailings
for meaning all day,
in sun it is tailings
that smell like petals,
stone that smells like
wet, sweaty limestone
then nothing after sunset.

My forearm follows lines
not enclosing space --
the limestone fragments,
my thought fragments,
my heart fragments,
I'm an exploded
waste on your floor.

Swept up, I thought
I saw a stone rose there
in that pile.

A workman's curse
to grab at
stone roses
that were.

][<en Follett