The Rose and the Hand

The Rose and the Hand

We are the rose that beholds the rose,

the hand that cups the flame

and is not burned

but warmed into being.

Beauty looks out through your eyes

and sees itself—

and calls it holy.

O, the sacred is not other.

It is the pulse in your wrist

singing yes to the pulse in the cosmos.

It is the way your breath catches

when the hawk banks against the sun,

and the sun banks against your heart.

We are the chalice and the wine,

the question and the amen,

the shelf emptying itself

so the fire may walk free.

Touch me,

and you touch the trembling edge

where the rose becomes the hand that tends it,

where the god becomes the body that names it,

where the beauty of the sacred

and the sacredness of beauty

unfurl as a single petal,

indistinguishable,

eternal,

home.

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