White Rose

I say, Yes to the petals given to Rose hearts as freely and easily as all the world's real true outgrowing

Both a velvet throne and a sort of super mute conqueror of cruel suns, you are;

but Yes mostly to a Rose lasting in the brow! and to the mossy root agonist that with true loving arms can easily hug and tear,

canceling bud and swelling, if need be, for a dear Something Yes, blooming heart that'd better eventually not grow!

For what grows, lonely, can be un- seasonably rare & gold for just a true time: it's less than clod but more than cold, a clear plant maiming from the first

And so my one only Rose, you are!

You are really lolling sweet and honey- tongued as all heck, with a pink push here, (& there), and the goodwill of an odd briny dew- tears below a one true eye— A slow-rising fulsome kind of true eye, too

Earth, seen from here, is one hothouse eterne,

wormed for clay pot and urn,

and just where petals crowning sober clods have known it,

and the leal & pipsqueak pinkbuds, too--

there you are, too, ripe for angry bees.