Rose

“come fluttering words, come drifting words to me…” A Rambling Poet A mere housemaid awakens before morning light. Eyes wide, she bolts upright to the bed’s edge, as if late for work, though she never is. Another beautiful day to labor away. Polishing silver all day has its advantages. Each piece polishes to a looking glass, each a porthole to her dreams. As she stares into the final polished vase, her weary face transforms into the face of a lovely, fair skinned maiden. Soft red lips highlight her perfect cheek bones and straight nose. A simple pink ribbon holds her long, auburn hair in place. Sparkling green eyes and a happy smile portray her excitement as she admires her floor length pastel summer dress. “Oh my, It’s time for my evening stroll,” she reminds herself. Twirling once, she heads out the door leading to the apple orchard. Barely noticing the orchard’s beauty, she strolls toward the stone steps leading to her favorite place, the stone rose garden. Making her way down the steps, she immediately notices someone has placed two arrangements onto the platform from the stone cabinet. As she bends to smell the flowers, she accidentally brushes some petals off, sending them floating to the platform and moss covered stone walk. Closing her eyes, she lets the essence take her back a dozen years to a young girl planting pink roses with her mother. “There’s not a lot of room to plant,” her mother would say. “Two inches of soil between all this stone is what we have to work with.” She opens her eyes to find herself staring into the polished silver vase. Her tired, smudged face reminds her it’s time to go home. Something different catches her eye in the polished looking glass. Her long auburn hair is no longer neatly bundled under her cleaning bonnet, but held in place by a simple pink ribbon. Randy Steele July 25, 2011 "What Is She Thinking?" contest