The Rose
i love everybody . . .
i can feel my big, great, squishy heart
wanting to walk up and tell people
how to find the pink rose
with the exquisite fragrance.
Silly child!
They may look at me like I’m crazy.
They may look away.
They may not look at me at all.
They may glare at me, imagining . . .
like a shock wave though my heart,
which reels like a sea anemone
in the current. And that is fine
—if I can keep it from crumpling
like foil.
Ahh . . . there’s only one good cure
for that kind of pain:
Make it bigger.
Build it strong.
Recognize the way it wants to give itself out.
The heart becomes cramped and congested
with a lack of loving.
As it grows, we see that it is not about being seen
as much as seeing it ourselves,
finding where to give.
The sweetness of being Love
is like the fragrance
of that pink rose.
We find it on our own.
We find it when we listen.
We find it when we take the hand of a friend.
We find it taking joy in seeing
the old woman feeding the man in the wheelchair
on the street, spooning pure love into his heart.
We find it when we know that we are not separate from the rose.
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