Friday, May 16, 2003
copeland morris THE ROSE...THE MIMOSA
To stand outside the world or within it, facing the rose,
The words are surprised,
As silence is.
And hardly a shelter, intricate mimosa
Barely fends off the oppression of summer, almost without
He thinks of those unpossessed hands that gather
In brilliant vases
She thinks of the mimosa, a subtle mist,
A coolness the face can just perceive and bless.