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Whispers of Velvet
A rose slumbers under the snow, anticipating Spring's dance... As jubilant blooms sway in morning breeze, reverently kneeling before a show of 'His Majesty,' not created by hand of man, I marvel in quiet humility as simple caretaker of His splendor. Watering thirsty roots, feeding hungry buds, carefully I devise my color scheme, envisioning masses of blossoms, divine tints complimenting each other, amidst lush leaves of gracious green. Complete blueprint for life, contained in one tiny seed, bequeathed by a Creator to flourish into predictable plants, yet displaying hidden rainbows of possibilities in an array of unimaginable hues. My chosen, tiny seedling is tenderly placed in freshly spaded earth, amongst billowing sisters, concerting their vivid dance of beauty. Eyes, still reveling in glorious grandeur, watch a petal drift... A once-perfect blossom falls softly, silently, to quickly wither. So is the bloom of all life, having only a short season to glory. Hearing...The Creator speaks in sensual tones, velvet-soft petals whisper of tender mercies, as a kaleidoscope of color reveals unimagined shades of His Love...breathing spicy-sweet fragrance, beckoning my soul to believe in the savor of His Grace for me. Lifting eyes to a blushing, morning sky, imagine Adam walking in the first garden, talking with God in the cool, misty air. Exquisitely-fashioned flowers dazzle, as foliage sustains breath, life...His gift gently kisses each sense in delicate profusion. The dying rose petal caresses my cheek...I hear Him softly, in whispers of velvet, anointing my senses...the sun releases its last sweet, subtle perfume in simple memory of its grace. Tears flow silently onto lips that tenderly smile...I hear Him...speaking rainbows of promise to my sonlit soul.
This is a revision of one of the first poems I submitted at TPL. In the last week of December, after some bitter cold I might add, I found a winter rose...slightly wilted by frost, shielded somewhat by my porch...slowly opening, as if in defiance of winter's bleakness. I cut it, enjoying a last memory of summer, as its perfume filled the room. In memory of my 'winter rose' I revised this piece.
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