This poem is taken from Stand 217, 16(1) March - April 2018.

C.E. Whitaker Poem
The Rose

So many arms, thorny
octopus, clambering over the fence,
tentacles that bite
when it’s time
to cut you back,
prune you
to grow away from the light
as well as toward it.

Light and darkness
without them what would we have?
What could we see?
What would we know?

The birds in the garden tiny packages
of hope. They open and flutter
on the breeze
where you set your scent
loose to wander,
to find us here
in our darkness,
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