Perfection

Though red, it was an ordinary rose,

meaning it did not come in love

or deep appreciation, but was

offered to me, and one like it

to my daughter, by a waiter

on Mother’s Day. Without vase,

the rose found water in a tall

glass on my kitchen counter.

Perfection is not a word 

I use lightly, but this rose

was extraordinary, even in bud:

petals in more layers 

than I’ve seen in any rose.

It didn’t open but widened,

growing large and complex,

lush like crimson velvet.

How would it age, I wondered,

Would it come apart in bits?

After a week, the petals 

began to darken and curl,

its head began to droop;

but after ten days, it was

still lovely, color deeper, 

its nested petals intact.

I can’t imagine a place

where perfect roses grow:

a many-paned glass house

or plantations of bushes?

Genes surely modified

to make superior flowers

for high-end restaurants to

give as pawns of commerce.

Yet the perfect rose that came

to my kitchen was a source

of awe, a daily surprise:

it became exquisite, 

then slowly waned. 

I could not help but

see it as a metaphor,

a way of growing old.