A Fragrance As of Myrrh

Her fading years have greyed her skin and hair.
Her eyes (like seeds, fresh green) inspire her face
with blooming patience, distant in their gaze—
perceiving something absent, lost, or rare.
A single rose she tends with foregone care,
preserving its shy presence in a vase,
its keen aroma spread with rendered grace:
a far-off fading fragrance as of myrrh.
She kisses with her wilted mouth the bloom
because its petals look like angels’ lips
and because in a week the rose will wan
and die and lose its mystical perfume.
She’ll dry the petals, after death’s eclipse,
and press them in the pages of St. John.

© February 2015, Rachelle Ferguson