Take a seed and bury it deep in earth.
Watch nothing as the seasons change.
When you remember, pour precious water
Into its grave like an offering to the gods.
In Spring, see something in the mud -- a flash of green.
The rosebush will begin to be: slow days of rain
And sun will send a sturdy stalk (when time is ripe)
And then a bud.
A young rose swells with life in slips of pink.
This one could be a thousand shades
Of lovely; could take its place with choruses of color—
Arrangements for a lover, maybe, or a friend.
Now when it’s just begun to flower, take that bud.
Rip petals off the stalk and bruise them well.
Use anything at hand; it only matters
That they’re completely crushed.
Discard the rest.
Pour out the broken petals, mix well with oil
And cover. Keep this mixture overnight
In a cool, dark place.
Strain through cloth and cast aside the pulp.
Repeat these steps three days.
Keep no thought of the seed you buried
Years ago, or that bud, all pregnant with potential,
Before you ripped it down and crushed
It crude so all the sweetness lifted off to scent.
Collect your fragrance in a vial.
When time is ripe, you will find the man you made it for.
When you do, unstop the vial.
Pour out every drop to wash his torn and scarring feet.
See how the essence hangs in air
Into an opened sky.