The Triune Rose
I Am the tight-rolled nubile bud.
Crone is the wizened hip,
last on the twig,
hoping to feed a wayward bird.
She remembers sweetness,
Her own unfolding,
this vale of thorns.
I, for My part, imagine
the urge to burst and shower seed
into the fertile womb of icy death
awaiting resurrection.
© Tamara Rasmussen 2018