“Sonnet for a Friend With OCD”
Consider now the glory of the rose
so short her moment in the throes of life.
I wish for her disorder not proposed
to bloom and bloom in thus repeated strife.
She could be vain and pose as does the tree
but nature gives her one, small moment’s pride.
She calms the chatter heard among the bees;
she smooths the wind so soft, her petals glide.
But, now that rose love gifted once to bloom;
once glorified, her pause is sure and sweet.
The beat of time’s illusion for a tune;
in silence, she finds no need to repeat.
Oh, what a rose! that mystery so free
that in her being is her constancy.