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  • By David B. Gosselin

Fresh-Picked Roses

A rose is lying in the summer mud— The dew still fresh from when it fell last night.

A phoenix sinks into a sea of sands— See how the midnight sky outshines the day?

It’s true—a comet burns one moment then It fades and scatters on the cosmic surf.

But Hector too had breathed his final breath, Then like a comet vanished in the depths.

A boy is dreaming on a backyard swing; He smells the lilacs, but he picks a rose.

He has his dreams, some dark, some bright, some light And pure like laurel sprigs or mountain streams.

He picked the rose—its beauty unsurpassed; He picked her though he feared her thorns—he had

A fear of fear itself, a love of love— The love of other and the love of self.

The rose we place inside our lover’s hands Is like the dreams we place in our own hands.

When fresh-picked roses fall into their hands, Our dearest hopes and dreams are placed there too.

Dreams too—like roses and like love have thorns, But oh the joy of picking our own rose.

David B. Gosselin is a writer, researcher, and poet based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse and New Lyre. Follow him on Substack at Age of Muses.

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