An altared state

An altared state 7th Nov 2008

I said to a neighbour recently, that when I smell the rose, especially the scent of the Eiffel Tower, that long stemmed pink I smell God.
I scent-ce the present-ce of God.
There's something divine in this experience.
The rose bush is really a green altar that makes offerings of scent.
From the rose bush's leafy arms come offerings that strain to reach you - hoping to touch you.
Some are thorny arms that don't like to be handled, but regardless carry gifts as their apology for their unique ability in drawing blood.
Roses take on a personage quality, and their leafy forms delight the eye for some as much as their flower.
Their leaves are an art form.
And their spikes seem to exert the same qualities as the tail or horned outer skin of some mythical green dragon.
Roses are minature dragons stabled in garden beds.
Under laid and sitting atop rotting stable manures and ancient stems and gnarled leg-like roots.
Out of these sculptured plimps of possibility, beings that are cut and made to heel, come buds of scented blossom, buds on arms with finger tips of roses.
It makes sense, that roses are scents Beautiful scents arranged to dress the air...