I
plucked the blooming bud
from
Grandma’s rosebush, eagerly
admiring
waning beauty of
burgundy
to delicate blush.
Reaching
for another,
she
instead held with force, desperate for life,
knowing
she would not thrive without
sturdy
stem, with roots held deep within ground.
As
blood flourished and flowed across my fingertips,
I
was sorry for the pain,
her
rough thorns tearing innocent skin.
And
then,
I
realized the rose was me –
pretty
appearance, tough exterior,
fruitful,
flawed and fatal;
Both
wanting to be loved, but
not
knowing how
to
trust in
forever.
I
lived in a town where,
when
growing up,
everyone
hated to claim it
as
their own,
yet,
after graduating, finally reaching their
coveted
opportunity to leave,
those
people never left.
The
village of 200 was
small,
unattractive, unappealing –
with
one
small gas station,
bank,
post-office,
one-stop
shop,
no
stop lights,
and
now, an abandoned school,
nothing
called my name to stay.
And
yet,
the
heart of the region clings onto my own,
the
years of yesterday telling me
that
where I came from truly mattered.
I could
never give it up,
the
town that taught me who I was
and
who I wanted to be.
So
even as I search for a place to call my own,
the
small silver lining of
my
existence shall ever be attached
to
Stella,
a
place with nothing to offer
and
every tale to remember.
Carrying
no knowledge of time
and
waiting for when
my
shallow
being
fades,
let
me grasp that
You
are
Him,
above
all else,
above
all of us
unchanging
and
unwavering,
and
still
this
ever-restless
rebellious
heart.
And
he tread toward where I
could
not follow,
took
a way which
was
foreign to me.
While
I walk down this
path
by my lonesome,
perhaps
someday this road
will
feel free.
And
I do not despair
at
his notion;
though
this ache in my
soul
just won’t leave.
But
one day we shall
meet
in Your kingdom,
and
forever be
loved
by Thee.
