a purposely strewn path of petals?
July 27, 2010 § 6 Comments
or a happy accident of fallen flowers, just there on the steps?
Scene (seen) in Georgetown…
When I walked by, going up the street, the petals were there, just as you see them.
When I walked by, going down the street on my return, they were gone.
Ah, more stuff worthy of a story, perhaps.
Like Shoreacres in her comment two posts ago, I have given up on the feather jammed into one of the spotlights that shines on the US Treasury building.
Yes, surely someone encroached on the wee bit of perfect federal lawn to jam the feather in there and then had a leaping joyous laugh about it, jumping back onto legal ground and maybe going out for (another) beer, but I prefer to think it was a zephyr having its poetic way with things.
As for the unfinished trail of flower power petals, I haven’t a clue.
Yet I’m certain at least that those are rose petals.
And so a nice little something from the four-time Pulitzer Prize winner who read at Kennedy’s inauguration, the eventual New Englander, our good Mr. Frost, writing of roses.
by Robert Frost
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
‘I wonder,’ I say, ‘who the owner of those is.’
‘Oh, no one you know,’ she answers me airy,
‘But one we must ask if we want any roses.’
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
‘Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?’
‘Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
‘Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
‘Tis summer again; there’s two come for roses.
‘A word with you, that of the singer recalling–
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.’
We do not loosen our hands’ intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.