To Gertrude Stein

When is a rose not a rose?
When a word on paper?
When blue or violet?
Or when conceived as your fair heart
My heart’s desire?

Or is it when the blossom bursts
And the faint cascade has fallen
To a new love’s breast
And only the idea remains?

Could it be in dormant winter
Huddling in the dark recess?
Or is it in the full flower red-and-white,
The seven-tiered jeweled crown?

A golden rose or the white rose,
The roseate dawn in your cheek
Is this not a rose? To beguile,
Enchant, entrance and stir my passion?

Consider, the defiled rose forlorn
Is it not still the secret heart?
Or the desecrated rose of our Lord
Abandoned, besmirched, reveled, laid low.

When is a rose not a rose?
I cannot say for I am the rose laid low
My hues faded gray, my heart rocky and worn
Not yet trammeled to dust.