The Rose Jar

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Musky as the cedar drawer 
in Grandmas’ standing metal trunk, 

a genie scent, improbable and 
distant as the sound of hooves on sand 

in some Arabian tale read by Father 
in the hall between bedrooms to say goodnight. 

Rose petals, five generations of fragile crinkles 
once supple, fresh, pressed on at a precious time 

into the four-inch cloisonne on pointed golden legs
fat as a Buddha tummy, bottled in 

by a cloisonne hat with wobbly lifter,
an ancient pine cone of blackened silver. 

Lift it, raise the smooth bowl with its infinite expertise
laid with tweezers into a miniature mozaic: 

flowers rusty orange, circles and shields aged before aging
curls of gold small smaller smallest and red, 

edging a sapphire river spilled into dusky green.
Watch. See the centuries of Chinese have their way.

Feel the careful hands that plucked each piece in place.
Raise the lid, bring the smooth round closer. Tiny gusts

of history waft the gatherings of births, graduations,
weddings, funerals, celebrations—one petal each, 

pink, red, yellow, orange, crisping, sinking into petals
then to holy mash, salted into decades collecting 

but never filling to the top the space, mysterious 
space, defying definition, only wafting life 

like some subtle, still surprising breath of God.