Introspection on a Saturday Afternoon in May[1]

A single white rose, heady with its own perfume, pregnant with a singular meaning that can’t be shared, certainly not in a bouquet.  A single white rose full of inchoate possibility and just a hint of mystery: why white, why not red, or chartreuse or peach.  A single white rose still wearing its thorns, a trace of menace, a touch of the wild.  Domesticated?  Well, … maybe, … or, maybe not.

I’ve thought for a while that I’ve been washed clean of romance, lost faith in love, that even sex had lost its compelling joie de vivre.  But perhaps I’m wrong; perhaps, I’ve just been dazed for a while, justifiably gun shy, afraid to open myself to experiences too strong to contain; perhaps there’s just enough spark left to ignite a surprisingly strong blaze.  Well, … maybe, … or, maybe not.

A single white rose, heady with its own perfume, pregnant with a singular meaning that can’t be shared, certainly not in a bouquet.  A single white rose full of inchoate possibility and just a hint of mystery: why white, why not red, or chartreuse or peach.  A single white rose still wearing its thorns, a trace of menace, a touch of the wild.  Domesticated?  Well, … maybe, … or, maybe not.