THERE IS STILL ONE ROSE

There is still one rose today
by the icicles to make me alive
many shall pass its red petals
yet only a few ardent neighbors
or strangers will be impressed
by Vermont's turning nature
even think how the lonely flower
still survives in a sleepy garden,
for life is a brief page of news
to laugh or to weep,
as two adolescents with attitude
first in jest then in a narrative
not making any sense
to the garrulous eye
start a warring jealousy
of a fight on the wrong street
as a poet prays they will change
without any crime or violence
that tension of revenge will cease
in a submissive space of time,
as the geometry teacher
and a strong wrestling coach
intervenes as an arbiter
with a gesture for some peace
and the two boys leave alone
at a standstill in silence
with a high five,
here in a nest of songbirds
emerge from the Oak tree
by the chrysanthemum's river bed
who may be thirsty
for the springs
stop nearby for a drink
and to eat our bread crumbs,
the red rose wraps our attention
and this poet delivers words
or sings a canticle of St. Francis
to brother moon, sister sun
and pardon our thousand ways
of courting the ray's reflection
or relives a line of Tom Merton
in a morning's creativity
as windy leaves succumb
the last rose stands by
a broken wing of a bird
we will be a comfort
to the animal family
over this hill and Bay,
the bird suddenly flies away
there are still miracles
on this Autumn's Thursday.