Strange Rose

So much, so much, so much

Is clear,

And so much grey.

It is rare, it is rare, it is rare,

That is so much this way.

Sleepwalking squirrel,

I make you laugh

Ah, ah, ah.

The morning once whispered to me

Asking

If I knew a secret or two

Of the manner in which you met it;

So perfect in each and every instance

Without thinking.

The sun peaked over the horizon at

A mountain, living, sacred, wounded, sweet, and celestial.

At its base I found roses colored with your lips

As plain as you may find them

I know their smell is sweet;

Look my way one more time, wouldn’t you.