The Secret Splendour

When a rose meditates,

Does it grow less red?

 The carmine burns but inward

To the core, instead

Of flaring out to the tips

Of petals from

 That tranquil centre, beauty

Points back to its home,

 Gathers the oneness-within

That broke into flame,

Tongue upon tremulous tongue

Of a secret name.

Damask is damask still,

But the life-breath knows

By what deep blissfulness fed

Its perfume blows—

 Cup of creative calm

Where the root unseen

Dreaming the invisible

Ethereal sheen

Rises from buried blindness

In the pistil's spire

And, through the spark of the pollen,

Catches sky-fire—

 Mystery underneath,

Mystery beyond.

Merging in a mid-space

Where darkness is dawned—

A heart of hidden honey,

Wing-visited shrine

Within whose child-gaze vigil

Dust feels divine.

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