A Red Rose Of December
December is here time to attend to my roses on my sunshine farm. it is hot and dusty, wildfires are always ready to break out.
Here and now the image of a shiny red rose stuck in dark long hair comes to my mind..
They appeared with the first snow
on the outskirt of our town
Walking in one line
two strong men
followed by a slim girl
and a child.
In the fields of the first farm
they stopped their old wagon
while sun was setting down
they cooked fresh potatoes
over the fire.
A little trained monkey
tried to steal some
they laughed gathering fresh hay
and cuddled to each other
to chase away the cold
it was still snowing.
I watched them sleeping
my wandering gypsies.
I could not wait to see them
to dance and sing
on the ancient steps
of our church
on the Christmas morning.
And they did
straight after our mass
the youngest of the men
playing his harp
another one balancing
on a thin iron bar
a child sang in angel’s voice
safe in his mother’s arms
Then beautiful dark Mary
twirled her colorful skirts
her golden bangles
shimmered in the eyes
of lustful town men.
Their angry wives spit at her
crossing themselves
running back to shut
the door of the church.
Mary didn’t mind.
She was dancing to her own
ancient God of love.
My wondering gypsies
coming to our town
to give us free spirit and joy
with the tomorrow sun
they would be gone.
My wandering gypsies with empty hands and full hearts, I followed them all the way out of the town.
Mary stopped and gathered me in her arms: “Please take me with you,” I begged: “I am alone in the world like you."
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She laughed opening her arms
to the wind
her child played with an empty
tin plate
watching us hungrily and I sighed.
“Everything what you need is
in front of you,”
she said to me while opening my palm.
“Your life will be good, trust me,
my little blue eyed one.”
Over the winter countryside
a pale cold sun was rising up.
I waved them good bye.
She looked tired my gypsy queen,
I missed her so much
but she said I see her again
next year to worship her god Odin
and laughing at us all
stuck in our small and miserable lives
while she roamed the whole world.
When I looked down
right in front of my old shoes
on the fresh fallen snow
lied a shiny paper red rose
that fell off Mary’s long
sleek dark hair.
I picked it up and stuck it
in my own blonde curls
hopping all the way back
to my granny’s house
‘Now I am a gypsy queen too,”
I thought.
It took me years to realise what my gypsy queen has read from my palm.
Mary has lived whole her life selling a dream.
She never came back to our little town.
They apparently found a big city
with more people
eager to buy a little paper rose
to make them feel
like real kings and queens
for a little while..
Real roses are not so pretty
neither so perfect
but real as one can be
and I have found plenty
wandering all around
my past fifty five years
never tempted again
to swap the imperfect real rose
for the perfect paper one...
My childhood gypsy queen taught me a lesson for life...
