Golden Child
There is a quiet spirit in the thorn-piercing
branches of the pruned rose; all winter
it stayed silent, seeming dead
and when you watch and wait, the mystery of nature
out-watches and out-waits. You hear only chilly
winds through its bareness then, in absence
from watching its awakening, stirs.
Like the first clarinet notes
of Copland’s Appalachian Spring, its first leaves
appear, their palms upturned calling the sun-
spirit down, the turning.too marvellous
to be understood, as buds burst on the scene;
a prodigal-rose, its golden cascade returning
to the garden, its petals, curled cubbies
for bees, fragrant on the air.
You can hear its tender voice on the spring breeze
and imagine the spirit-bloom of roses;
their legends singing all over the world.
Colleen Keating
