Were that I a rose growing on an all black floor,
Kept in the dark during the day in cool twilight
Hidden in a glass vase behind velvet red curtains.
Were that I stood before an infinite sea,
Under a galaxy of luminescent stars lighting the sky,
Bobbing and weaving to the windy whims of orchestral
shadows like Atlas holding up the world above them.
Were that I a rose with a face to meet the coming tides,
Petals changing colors and stems rising and falling,
while the leaves sprout and drop.
Were that I a rose, bearing pollen as the prima donna
of some field of daisies and daffodils,
bowing before the chorus of dandelions' applause.
Alas; I am in the weeds; I am not that rose,
but she blooms in my garden.