“. . . rose”
a traditional ghazal for my wife, Rosalee
Breathing slowly, one nostril at a time, smell a rose,
eyes closed; do not shun the thorns that adorn the rose.
In winter, the bare stems ice over, as you already know,
but have you noticed that, at sunset, the cold stems blush rose?
Easter morning, the darkness grew still before dawn;
beyond a grove of oaks, in fun, a golden kite rose.
The June heat penetrates even the margins of your thoughts.
To revive your mid’s function, anoint gently with oil of rose.
Gino, you have the flower’s name, its fragrance, even a verb.
Now, turn a pun for how our life dances – rosily.