The Blue Rose

The stone was cracked

But the memory—

The memory of your love—

Remains intact!

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I sought to rend

My own life—

Your love saved me—

I’m on the mend!

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I found a way

To hang on

And sing a song

To the fading gray.

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You were a blue rose,

A mysterious beauty

That sanctified

This life I chose.

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You gave it to me

A gift, never too late

To appreciate—

To love this tree.

***** * *****

Rommentary:

This poem was written after I mended the pictured stone, which was a memorial to my mother.

When my stepdad passed, other family members gave it to me. When the corner crumbled and fell away, my oldest daughter, who was very close to Mom, placed it back together with a worried frown, so I knew one day I’d need to reattach it, save it as long as I can.

As a student of comparative religion, I know it all stands for something, but I retain enough humility to know not what. Nevertheless, Mom was an angel on earth so I can only imagine she must keep company with them now that she’s shed the earthly shell, and the symbolism therefore still warms my heart.

In nature, so far as we know, there is no such thing as a blue rose. Different cultures have made it a legend, a rare and mysterious thing of beauty and grace. We should all be so fortunate as to encounter a person in our life, a living legend, a saint on earth.

I’m sure you can think of someone. This poem is for them too.