By Carol-Ann Rudy

Wild roses spoke to me in the language of fragrance when I was eight,

their velvet skin covered with dust kicked up by my shoes

as I walked a lonely Quebec road.

The sun at its summer zenith shone on me

and I knew it was my dust that ate up the shadows beneath my feet,

such was my power when I was eight.

When I was eight, spring snowmelt revealed

the ochre lace of autumn’s leaves left for me by winter’s storm,

sheltered by a layer of last summer’s dust.

Picking one leaf, I carried my treasure home,

recording it for all time in a painting on my wall,

such was my power when I was eight.

Now I am fifty and the dust is upon me,

the shadows grow long,

and I am the portrait on the wall,

sere and faded.

Still, the fragrance of wild roses on that lonely Quebec road lingers,

such was my power when I was eight.

Carol-Ann Rudy is a journalist, storywriter and poet. Born in Canada she now resides in South Carolina and has written articles especially for iNews Cayman