When I’m concealed inside a rose, I’m mesmerized by dew. Butterflies touch my nose. I’m the blood moon intensified. I float away toward an expanded horizon, though hidden in a rose, I’m vaster than the Milky Way Galaxy. What constrains me is you... whenever you fear that cold will freeze your clarity of thought whenever you fear rain won’t fall as it does as dew drops whenever you fear the doubt of not knowing who you are as a gentle gardner cuts your bloom off to admire you wherever you fear violent delights whose violent beginnings stare at your inability to cope as those loved by you are cut, vased to adorne a kitchen whenever you imagine demise prior to it happening, might it happen, might not happen, worries cripple you as if you've already been cut into what you most fear, the inability to cope Dear petals of a quiet rose, if I can't give you confort to heal what's ahead... Remind yourself to distinguish between what is possible, what is probable, what is likely, whose hidden dew leads you to flourish despite being cut off the stem you crave. Floursh by giving beauty to your habitat until you dry out, give yourself peace by being the courage to withstand storms. If what's possible becomes what's probable, and what's probable becomes what's likely, you’ve still got a way out. Be the bravest. Despite confornted with a likely demise, meditate about the nature of humanity as children eat their breakfast, rejoice in observing time unfolding as you dry. If no child is nearby, attend yourself, the vase, rejoice in the grace you are, admire your effort into being the rose who defies what's possible, probable, what's likely, there’s a silver lining to every emotion, it is up to me to be neither the observer, nor the observed, but one who is concealed and unconcealed in nature, a rose, the moon, the wind, the vase, water, and the childless woman who writes from her kitchen table inspired by a rose who chose not to be cut but was anyway, was it possible? Of course. Probable? No, she had never cut her roses before that day. Likely? Not until it happened, it wasn’t probable, nor likely but is now after I died reminiscent of her. Dear Mom, I’m concealed inside that rose, as you cut another one, find me exposed. I’m the blood moon intensified, I float everyday toward myself as an expanding horizon, though concealed in a rose, I’m far beyond the infinite of our Omega Centauri, what constrained was the vessel, without it, I’m beyond reproach. I’m here, yet I’m not. I’m concealed, unconcealed by your memories. May I stay in that rose forever. May I never come back to it, except to decrire our love in a poem that shortly was.