By Any Other Name – A Lament

Like any other rose, she crept into the “garden,” virtually unnoticed in a time of discovery and wonder. Steadily, she advanced, and made for herself a certain place of recognition, though still a relatively minor protrusion on the landscape of humanity.

In comparatively short order she grew, ascended to a stature never before seen in the garden. Some, many would hold that hers was the greatest bloom unfurled. 

She would develop to be perhaps the finest ever known in any garden as the grand centerpiece of aspirations which eclipsed all others.

As there had been a beginning, in turn, there would be a day in which she would gently, ever so slowly lose her brilliance, and bow to the ravages of time and choice. 

As in many fates, the instrument of surrender would be chosen, embraced by the rose herself… her self. 

The “scalpel” blade was brilliant, and mostly imperceptible as it moved swiftly through, undeterred between the now, quite defenseless thorns. Still, for quite some time she would feign life as the marrow of her animation wept. But the future was set. Yes, the future had been cast. 

There had been many, too many over the course of time who had long championed her demise, who had long promoted their own affections. Too many. Envy? Yes. Evil?  Yes.

Stones. Thistles. Weeds. Hard. 

In time, the petals will bend, and fall to the ground.  

In time, that which has bloomed gloriously will succumb to a time forgotten. 

In time, obscurity.

The petals would blow away, only memories lost to time. 

Did we not enjoy her?  Did we not applaud her? Did we not ravage her? Did we not destroy her?

Yes. Yes. And, sadly, yes, and yes.

Under shed grace… now shed. 

But, there was no longer a place for her in this desolate garden. New roses would come, buds which would never fully bloom. Fetid blooms. And we would still call each one, “a rose.”

Perhaps another garden altogether. Yes! A new garden. The next garden will be better. It is the prerogative of the Gardener. 

“The grass withers, the flower fades, 
 When the breath of the LORD blows upon it; 
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades, 
But the word of our God stands forever”
Isaiah 40:7-8.