Spirits of the Rose
They stand at the top of the stairs and seem to meditate—
full of the night, full of the light that is within the rose,
cool and orbed and many-layered.
There is a soundlessness in their bodies,
there is the power of waiting.
The light of the rose—it is in their eyes—
in the music of hands—the urgency—
the winged light—the orbed lids—
They begin to tell the long, difficult words
of their journey: indifferent hours, the wait
in the grey darkness of tired rooms.
In a sequence unknown to us
they appear—spirits held upright -
in narrow rows—in robes of crimson
through the long frames and spaces of the night.
