Rose Garden.
At eighteen, you thought you had me
crushed within your grasp.
Early spring leaf,
fragile virgin green,
transluscent, unfullfilled.
At twenty one, you knew I was lost
falling from your fingertips,
still fragile,
unbroken.
I watched you sob,
held out my hand for you
and beckoned you come
before I dropped out of reach.
At forty five, we passed each other once more
in a world that was spring no longer,
gazed across our years
and remembered promises exchanged.
I wanted you then,
to taste what I had missed.
You called to me
above birdsong and wind
and bid me to come to you
before it was too late,
before autumn stripped the trees.
At forty five and one hour,
as I lay upon love stained sheets,
I heard a news vendor cry from the street below,
of how a plane to Mexico
dropped from the sky just a day ago.
I knew for us it was too late
and wept amid the petals of my rose garden.
© Berenice Dunford 2004
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"Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind."
T. S. Eliot, "Four Quartets"
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