To the rose
the garden disappears.
To the garden
the rose withers away.
(If you were the gardener,
what would you say?)
Trace it all back as far as you can
from where it is now to where it began.
From knife to hand
from hand to eye;
from footprints on sand
to sun in the sky.
Trace it back further to where it begins
to the gateways and windows where all things get in.
The scent is not the rose
but the hairs that line the nose.
The seascape is the roving eye,
the tongue is the taste not the apple pie.
Mozart is what you hear
and his place is in the ear.
And all the subtle sensations that impinge upon the skin
flare their little on/off switches
in the mind that shines within.