Virgin Snow Covered White Rose

Winter surprised one November morning up on the Roszadomb in Budapest.

Descending into freshly fallen snow – earlier than expected

I rush past a rose bush layered lush, a brighter white

Flakes falling damp like dew, grasping

holly leaves hanging heavy off amber stems

Flakes so delicate and wanting no rejection

piling on petals resilient and full of might

Virgin snow covered white rose.

A shutter snaps capturing this white rose wanting

life beyond lapels, vases and fragrant gardens

Long a symbol of innocence and an untarnished world

taking on new life during revolt

Hoping for intervention, nothing divine transpires beyond

unfulfilled promises of support­ that doom defiance

Virgin snow covered white rose.

Bare hands assembled so many barricades erected

holding out gallantly only to be

Crushed bloody red by rolling tanks while sewing seeds

of future revolts behind a rusting iron curtain

Twelve years later in a Prague Spring

twelve years from a shipyard  in Gdansk

Virgin snow covered white rose.

Somewhere My Love

Looking out my dining room window, winter has taken over.

Two benches sit idle near our blown-shut path leading to a frozen-over Lake Michigan. Knee deep in wind-packed snow, a foot and a half on top, the benches offer no refuge.

Rounded-white effigies occupy the black, wrought iron chairs on our patio. No respite, again, for winter has settled in.

Winter can make for lonesome days in January that have sometimes made me quip, “Doctor Zhivago visits here often,” when summer visitors ask me, “How’s winter in Leland?”

Today’s solitude makes me think of that scene in Doctor Zhivago where he and his femme fatale arrive by horse-drawn sleigh at a dacha – encased outside and in by a glaze of ice and snow.

“Somewhere My Love,” Lara’s theme from the film sings in my ear.

Thankfully, Valentine’s Day falls in mid February and the rose is the flower of choice. Roses have a cultivated mystique, ancient symbols of love and beauty, remembrance and passion. Each rose has a magnificence that transcends its physical uniqueness, deep fragrance, and short life as a cut flower. The color of a rose has significance, too.

Red stirs romance and passion.

Pink… grace, elegance and refinement.

White holds out for happiness.

Blue... try mystery and intrigue.

Purple longs for love at first sight.

Orange shouts out enthusiasm.

Yellow conveys joy and friendship in today’s western world, although it has historically meant joy, wisdom and power in Eastern cultures, and has long symbolized jealousy and dying love in Europe.

Come next week, pose daily with a rose when you knock on your door.

Don’t wait for Dr. Zhivago to come singing “Somewhere my love.”