My friend returned from a self-discovery trip to Italy. About a week later, she took down the profile photo of her lounging by the pool, and posted her business photo… so I wrote this.

Is this again
who my friend is?
A trimmed, pruned, perfectly-in-place
Rose, sitting in a manicured garden?

The Rose I know
is a flora bunda,
throwing herself
with passion and gusto
hither and yon,
first straddling,
then climbing over garden walls,
exploring, untrained, places
outside her artificial limits;
destinations where her gardeners,
in their stiff shoes and mucked-up boots,
say she shouldn’t go.

But she escapes her artifical confines anyway,
because she knows that,
by thrusting off those fake constraints,
the freedom causes her to radiate blossoms continually.
It’s as though her growth freeds her roots,
which then let her produce new blooms,
almost so many that you can’t count.
And they are rich and deep:
When people pass by this Rose, the scent
permiates the air
and makes them glad they are present.

No, this visage is not my friend.
The Rose I know is not tidy,
not pruned,
not controlled,
nor kept.
But her wild exuberance
makes her all the more
lovely.