The Mysterious Red Rose
By Don Iannone

On an apple crisp spring morning
...my mind can but cling
...to the single red rose given me
...in that numinous dream
...just a very few short years ago.
How strange, that
a lovely young dark-haired woman
...without warning
...should place in my trembling hand
...but a single, blood red rose
...spilling velvet mystery on my soul.
Secrecy, silence, and yes...undying love
...but for what?
Just one seductive rose
...whose thorns I pluck
...like breathless moments
...from the womb of time
...but should never underestimate
...because she lives forever.
Her nectareous scent walks me down
ancient paths, terribly long ago
...far out of reach
of the circling hands upon my watch
that knows far more
than it will ever tell.
Virgin Mary, not I, for
her purity too great for me.
St. Francis of Assisi, not I
...but I, like him
...overtaken by a vision
...on my way to Spoleto.
Just a simple rose.
Such thoughts she conjures
...as I awaken from my dream--
only to find a single red rose
...resting in the outstretched arms
of the scarlet oak tree
standing tall waiting for me.