“O Maker of Mysteries
Who makes every stranger a friend,
Who has given the rose to the thorn
as a robe of honour,
shift our dust again!
Make our nothing something”
This prayer I feel well and perhaps often, perhaps tonight more often than most. Sometimes inspiration becomes quiet. I spread my net and sing to my muse only to hear nothing back but the faint echo of my song. A friend of mine used to tell me at those times that I had a holding pattern happening and that the plane would land when it was time but until then to enjoy the circling lights. Very well then tonight I will contemplate the thorn on the rose and the friendliness of strangers.
When I was a teenager I used to have a problem with the concept of giving roses (or any flower for that matter) as gifts. “Why would you give someone a present that would die in a few days?”, I use to say with the worldly (or so I thought) disdain of an adolescent. It took me years and the loss of a few amazing people to realize that there is admirable beauty in the transitory and some things are beautiful because they do not last.
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Blue Reflections by G A Rosenberg