The Scent of Roses
And where shall be my God of gods--
in temples where the santal bruns,
or nature as it blooms and dies
from spring to spring,
or in the luminous cave
of my own beating heart
passing on beyond
when someday stilled.
My nature senses death dismissed
by a mischevous child who laughs at play
when gloomy, jokes still
in elusive joy.
My Crone is bent by weather
warm and tendered--
wisdom watching potent as a tree
and sacred as a candle in the apse.
You, child, Mother of me,
and you old woman my daughter,
in gardens of moist petals
of Mother of God,
you meet and blend as
sunlight and water in morning.
And wrap each other
in fragrance sweet and total,
You two who watch me grow
in thick and fertile beds of joy
this God, this woman.
And I-
the two essence knows,
yet blind and often silent
as focus tends other fields
Breathe the scent of roses
hope blooming fragrance,
and thirsty as the young bud.
And in that garden ponder
who I was and who I am
and who I will become
who are as one
then when they are none,
yet will I be.