When Stopping To Smell The Roses

Standing in a stream
Roses must be on the other side
For surely there are no roses here.

Just shadows beyond each stone
Molding haphazard shapes
Others might deride.

Miniature waves that sparkle
Giving the stones size,
like an island’s pride
When ocean currents
hit their shores.

How devious
this mountain’s stream
To divert the search for roses
To admiration of crevices
with stubborn grasses
here and there.


If you have any comments on this poem, L. Fullington would be pleased to hear from you.

This poem is from the sequence collected in L. Fullington's new book, How Different the Distance, soon to be published by Lulu.