Undreampt Dream #2

I awake in a dream to find myself in a beautiful Southern garden. Moss grows with the perfected randomness found only in the precise confines of nature. Vines grow upon trees rising to the sky like souls feeling a first glimpse of redemption after being released from the captivity of a dying body. The trees’ scars tell America’s lauded, yet blemished past as they blindly observe the present through their knotted-eyes. I see amazing flora, some that can only be described by a loss of breath and the resulting gasp for air. Brilliant daffodils rage war with a patch of spring’s recent bounty of lilies. The victor’s bounty is my awe and the possible pollination via a curious bee.

This garden is novel, yet familiar. Much like the first glimpse of home after returning from the City when your attempt to ‘find myself’ did not occur as expected. Much like the re-christened Home, this garden tells of my life through its contradictions just like a man is composed of his lofty yet unobtainable values that universally clash with the moments of guilt that follow the self-satisfaction granted by a wandering hand - - and a wandering mind. My life is assuredly told through the rose bush, one with Satan’s spines and porcupine daggers as its only tenants. There are no rosebuds. There never have been.

The bush’s dis-symbolism is found in the two emerging blossoms. One is deeply flawed and uneven. The color is not uniform and the aroma is not welcome to the olfactory system. Several parasites are living within its catacombs - - they ravage and rape, rape and ravage the sweet bud. A complex security system of thorns inhabits the spine of the flower leaving the curious hand little choice but to feel the prick of its idle protectors.

The other bud is seemingly flawless and its beauty is best described as the sustained comfortably uncomfortable sustained silence that accompanies a nervous first kiss between future lovers or a man’s first glimpse of his bride as she approaches the altar. The rose spirals in marriage with Fibonacci’s golden rule, as each petal assuredly cascades into the next in nature’s finest symphony for the senses. The spine is inviting and the absence of thorns is likened to an invitation to the finest ball.

I begin to sense Eve’s tempting serpent and I know that I must experience my own fall from grace, thus completing the mold originally cast by my own namesake. I reach towards the bush with a trembling hand that can only be described as an 8.3 (Rictor scale, of course). My mind weighs the benefits of my polarized options. Uneven hue or deep crimson? Disordered chaos or Olympus’ finest orchestration? A parasitic playground or the grandeur of the gods? My choice is obvious and I reach for the flawed beauty of the first bud. Each hue a new color to cherish. Each chaotic petal creates unimaginable curiosity and intrigue. Each parasite one being that discovered its beauty prior to me and will now share in celebrating the rose.