by Susan Steward
Lone rose at the rim of the canyon
mirrored in river below.
Winds ripple image and dance with the flower
while roots steadfast do not let go.
O'er canyon, doves nest among rose canes,
glide spirals on the heat of the wind
to the rim where the wingless find danger.
The precipice stands as their friend.
In black a masked man dreams beside them,
sees the flower, sees the doves as they doze,
knows the fight at the rim and the flight
with the wind,
but where in his life is the rose?
