The Conversation

A whispering rose bends toward a groundling and asks,
Where goes the happiness?
Swelling otherworldly
a timbre passes through the ether,
and answers,
“It is shoved into bottles by miraculous elves.”
Like men in black?
“No. Custodians
or gypsies
and they save it
for another distant afternoon.”

Rounded down into the dirt,
I hear the conversation and coalesce.
“Yes,” I speak, now lying on my belly.
“It appears today
someone has stolen it and run away.”
Bliss left unknowable,
memories cast to the soil.

Where is its origin?
the sweet pink rose questions to us.
“It would appear to come natural,” I say.
“Easy,
without any effort at all.”

But now,
smiles exist in a continual loop
as next week’s forecast.
Stuck, we wait,
peer up to the sky
in search of rainbows from outer space.

The Conversation