Rose Of Stone From A Forest Of Sage

The gentle breeze,

Carrying with it the scented leaves

Of a sage tree,

Tingled my senses with delight.

Then some red came into sight,

A crimson as deep as hell and just as bright

Yet soft as heaven’s homely light,

filled me with a calming shower.

Upon reaching this enticing flower

An aura unknown made me cower,

Confusion came with this power,

as I began to ponder, why I was unharmed.

A simple thought I did propose,

That you, my rose, are not one of thorns

But one of rock formed from love, and

with a pinch of home grown sage.

After this encounter, I was forever trapped by your allure.

I came to you day and night,

Asking of you some advice, though you loved me no less,

For such was my ignorance.

And through your wisest of words

I found the answers to all my pleas,

Though I found the need to inquire thee

of one last final thing.

“By whatever name should I call you, little rose?”

Then you replied in a sweetly tone, “However you wish, young boy.”

So I replied swiftly, with the only title worthy of you:

“Mama.”