The Stem

The Stem
by Joe Shaboo


You, the one who walks along those wild trails of grass,
Have you ever held the stem whose rose forever lasts?
"There is not one," so says the man whose eyes are made of glass.
Empty men speak hollow words to fill their broken past.
The stem, my friend, is rooted deep, not found by trails of grass.
It seeds itself beneath our feet to sprout into our souls.
And there it grows, so strong and tall, to vine around our bones
Where it buds and blooms for you and me never again alone.
So hold the stem, say no more, and I shall do the same
while scents of rose tickle our nose to set our leaves aflame.