This

by Tom Bajoras

This afternoon, while gardening,
an uninvited thought approached:
I’ll never get to see a rose
for the first time again.
I felt as if a thorn had pierced my heart,
like when a child discovers that
the beauty of the written page
is blurred by learning how to read.

This garden is my only home,
a place that cannot be replaced.
Hidden at its center stands
a sundial on a pedestal,
a monument to every moment
of my ordinary life.

The mornings turn to days;
the days all end in fire,
like roses sacrificed
to conciliate the night.

Not in vain,
the moments lived
to lead me to
the garden of
this now, this here.

And now I see
it all comes down
to this.