Have you ever felt that gentle beauty within,
so precious and rare, a glistening jewel, open rose of gold?
Yet without fragrance; no worker bees are drawn
to gather or carry forth even a drop of its mystic nectar.
Like true pearls that can but seldom be told from beads,
it remains safeguarded from tradesmen and our designs.

The petals all fall down, yet, from the flower of my heart.
Shall I sew them to my coat, pile on them my words, or print them?
Shall I shut its luster off from all light, or from that of the world?
The wellspring does not run dry: love blooms forever, spurned.
So let it be that, laid with quiet peace in his living blood.
A relic, locked away from the markets, in a chapel on the hill.

© 2015 Thomas Cudney

The Big Windows Review 6 (Fall 2015)