Red and thorny rose, Rugosa
memorized my heart
while cruising Acadia’s coastline trail
in younger times, longer times,
youth captured in floral scent,
theories one espouses
while waiting for life to begin
I regret nothing.
There is nothing to return to,
only a vapor trail of memories,
and rich or ripe or painful,
insults and passions and heartache
part and parcel of the new buds
bursting out of shellacked shells,
arching toward the sun;
they give it their all,
even if only for one season.
I did nothing less.
I do not know how to live subtly,
all those voices imploring,
Act like you want it less
and you’ll get it more,
Acting being the imperative,
and all I knew and know now
is how to Be, as fully myself
as I am able, and when I know more,
it will surely be revealed in my temperament.