Close by, swirls of coming dark 
swarm around the roses' heart; 
here, where poppies curl their tongues
in the ancient garden, ever young. 
Woe and grace may Shiva-dance 
at man’s creep of circumstance; 
womanly alpha-curves of light 
shape the lurching path of night. 
Flowing water wears down rock, 
blunts the mirror's warning shock 
day after dismaying day. 
These times call for greater heart— 
push the numbing fear away,  
let the petals' brave shine start.