Floribunda

A young father takes his small daughter’s picture
against a bank of floribunda roses that lines
the labyrinth called Thanksgiving Place.
Portrait done, she grabs handfuls of petals
to form balls of floral snow that promptly
fall apart; they will not stick as she wishes,
falling to the ground, an apricot carpet.

Her father walks away, calling her to follow.
She refuses, grabbing another then another
handful of petals, squeezing, dropping them,
thickening the blanket’s loft, leaving
not an inch of ground uncovered.

I walk this circle as my morning prayer along
its switchback path to my center, turning, and moving
outward from my beginning. I imagine this child
walking the labyrinth of life many years hence.

I want to be her and stamp my foot, ignoring again
my father’s call as he stands just beyond the vanishing
point at the end of my breathing’s path. Stubbornly
planted near a bank of flowers, first, I demand,
first, this rough earth made deep with beauty.

-Kitty Yanson