The perfect American Beauty Rose,
is it diminished
by the slag heaps on Rt. 11, just west
of Scranton, or by the dark cloud
that seems to have settled an inch or so 
beneath the surface of Lake Naomi, 
or even the swell of soot that hangs 
like a troubling thought over the town 
on the other side of the river? 
Is the rose there any less beautiful? 
Or this woman here; right now 
she is standing in the impatient way 
women have, a hip thrust out, 
a shoulder let low? She is casual 
this Sunday morning, in jeans 
and a simple top, and she stands 
at the top of the hill holding a cigarette 
and a leash, waiting for her dog to return. 
You'll have to take my word for this: 
she is as lovely as any rose 
you'll ever find on those long walks you take 
into the mountains, and nothing about her 
is diminished by the bombs that are falling 
this very moment on Afghanistan, the lies 
packed tight and neat into cartons 
and stacked with the rest in basements, 
warehouses and storage rentals 
throughout Washington, the three point shot 
dropping like a rock short of the basket 
in the final seconds of an important moment 
in someone's life. In fact, it is just the opposite: 
the grays around us fade—not reduced, no, 
nor chased away—but lost to the flush 
beauty of the red rose, of the women, 
in a moment appreciated.


Anonymous submission.