A rose gave up her secret
Of its origin – of its beauty –
In the shadow of her crescent –
Fiercely hushed once to me.

She told me of a plan of love
And a Master Gardener who
Has a touch of silver that betrothed
The rose to the morning dew

And described a plane in between
Nothing and a foundation –
The design of which is unbreached –
That lies in an unmeasured dimension

But her exact words were lost
To the enjambment of my memory –
Moreover – my comprehension lapsed –
Found lost inextricably.