A Rose in Winter

This is my first attempt at “creative” writing nearly twenty years ago. It was the first time that I let myself go. It was written in the second attention entirely in dreaming symbols.

The rose is indeed fragile and delicate. It needs nurturing so that as it first breaks through the soil of history it can reach upwards to the heavens, to reach for the stars. Yet onward and upward it grows. From the seed it begins to take form and shape. As it grows, delicate and vulnerable at first, it moves ever onwards. It battles with the winds that blow it this way and that. Yet the stem grows stronger. It puts forth leaves to soak up the sun of new experience. Each morning it makes the choice. The one of what was before and what is new. When it has grown enough it begins to bud. The hip is formed and the nascent flower begins to take shape, all the while pressing against the cloak that en-folds it. 

Then one cold morning the cloak is torn. There is a sound of leaves unfolding. The gentle un-fold-ment of what must be. The petals begin to spread their wings, first tentative, yet soon with strength. The flower begins to take shape. It is yellow and vital. At this stage the cold frosts of winter still plague it. Soon the warmth of spring is upon it and the colour deepens, then the fragrance. At first it is mild, soon oh so soon, it is heady, intoxicating and so sweet.

As each new petal of a relationship takes shape, it is indeed a delicate time, yet given enough space the petals grow. Each one is so. Each one needs care.

And yes, there is that crown, the one with thorns.
I no longer want that crown. It has served its purpose.

Where lies my flower, the flower that is ME? 

It is throwing off its mantle. I unfurl my protective coat. I want so much to bloom. Yet his-story holds me back. The movement sweeps away the chains of his-story, that old familiar one that begins “Once upon a time”, the story that supports my view of Alan. The one that says Alan does NOT deserve.

The Unknown beckons, I feel her fingers drawing me on.
They tap out a rhythm that I cannot resist. For such is the power of love, that which I have denied MYSELF for so long.

I feel like a willow whose leaves hang over a stream. Soon that stream will become a river. A river that fights against the banks that hold it, that becomes a surging torrent of THE passion and I will dance THAT dance.

The ONE that I have searched for, for SO long