Indiana Rose And The Temple Of Thorns...
She wanders the desert tough as nails,
Her petals of faded glory,
Wearing canvas garden gloves,
Bearing snips and a trowel.
Perhaps she'll find it in the next ghost town,
Thinking as she pores over old paper maps,
Sipping reposado tequila,
Dreaming of treasures forgotten.
Maybe a dried out shack will be the place,
Somewhere tumble weeds and ghosts pile up,
Somewhere a young bride once lived,
Her and her husband both seeking gold.
It might be a diary left tucked in a night-stand drawer,
Written in old Spanish cursive,
Spectral whispers of long-lost dreams and hopes.
Somewhere,
In some once front yard,
A place that hears only wind,
Sees only searing sun by day,
Billions of stars by night,
That's where it will be.
The oldest rose,
A variety so forgotten,
You'd have to read a dark-ages Spanish gardener's journal,
Just to know its lost name.
It will be the most famous ghost-town rose in history,
Only long-dead spirits will know its scent.
Somewhere,
Hidden in the forgotten desert towns of California,
She will find the Temple of Thorns.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/28/2020