Before the darkness of our wounding,
falling from consciousness
we forgot the spiraling
Super-Nova fiery rose of our begetting.

I appeared. Miraculously it seemed. Painted
on a cloak in red-fire of the Holy Virgin.
Her path, the path.

Meanwhile on earth I grew into a wild briar rose
my beauty asleep in turrets
entombed in a glass coffin
awaiting my awakening
weeping diamond tears.

I lived dark and dangerous
in flesh blinded by paranoia
so that touching the wound
ached with the perfume of sorrow.
Petals on the Cross that slid into crevices

Escaping only when the cultural mirrors
of our collective narcissism are smashed.
The spell of our mass hypnosis broken.

The great fire that was collecting in caves,
Deserts, on mountaintops, icecaps --
rises up. Is the voice of the song from beyond
that sings through earth, through air, through water.

A new love resonates from the stillpoint
of the enfolded Super-Nova rose
The ensouled rose now resurrected --
is the heart rose
is the compass.
Is the rose-fire blossoming with direction.

Frances Roberts