For Susan Smith

Wild Rosebush

How it stands there before the darkenings

of the raining evening, young and pure;

amoung its thrashed-out tendrils, giving,

and yet sunk, immersed in its rose-existence;

the shallow blossoms, some already open,

each one unasked-for and untended:

so, endlessly outdone by itself

and indescribably self-excited.

it calls to the wanderer, who in evening

meditation, passes by the path:

Oh see me stand, here, look, how safe I am

and unprotected, having all I need.

Rilke, Between Roots


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