MOSES OF ROSES
THe DrUnKeN POeT
The clouds cried passionately
The streets took a shower
I poured me some whiskey to drink
To drink think to link the
droplets and form an image.
My bed room window was foggy I rubbed it
with my sleeve but it slightly appeared again
when I breath.
From a distance I saw a rose it began to
appear close it was soaked the wetness
seemed to intensify every petal the rose
was spinning happily in the rain skipping
making beats of its own I watched its
thorns fall as it set its self free trying
to escape every last bee.
I walked outside introducing my self she said
let me guess your a bee she giggled have you
come to pollinate me I am sorry I won't just
make your temporary honey.
I said no I am a gardener who never cuts
his roses stem for a bouquet the gardener
who waters his roses I am the moses of
roses the gardener who removes the dead
leaves I won't be like those bees who simply
come and leave I will wear your petals on my sleeves.
I am the gardener who counts the petals on
his rose the gardener who cherishes inhaling
the sent of the rose up his nose and guides it
as it grows the gardener who lifts the roses
head up when the rain pours down on its crown
and makes it frown in my garden you'll be safe and sound.
The gardener who counts the thorns
the gardener who removes the weeds
and never fails to plant a good seed a
gardener catering to his flowers every need.
The gardener who loosens the soil so the
roots may grow plating them in the right
spot so the sun they will soak.
She said hmmm sound like miracle grow.
I said at least you know.