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 

             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.   
Signature Lina Ru