A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD DIE AS DEAD

Peter A. Hempel

I am not sad that this rose will die.

I have picked it – it scolds me

for the cutting short, the pain.

I do not choose to listen: there

is death in any case.

My rose, as I choose now to call you

(with all the attendant self-created responsibility),

will not suffer a different fate, but perhaps

a better journey. Indoors, in a filmy vase,

I shall admire you: your fragrance

shall not go to waste.

If he will, a bee may enter

my open window, hot in pursuit of

your redness, to tickle about

in that most private garden

until both he and you

are satisfied. Why should I protest?

If I could, would I

have you again next year? Your children, perhaps,

or just another,

but no, not you. You are hard to love: you

wield petals and thorns indifferently

(despite my concern and my hospitality).

It is not that I am fickle, but

this is a wintry land, and I

would not willingly change it.

Peter A. Hempel

(written while at UTx Austin - approx. 1975)