The Roses

All afternoon I have been walking over the dunes,
hurrying from one thick raft of the wrinkled, salt
roses to another, leaning down close to their dark
or pale petals, red as blood or white as snow. And
now I am beginning to breathe slowly and evenly—
the way a hunted animal breathes, finally, when it
has galloped, and galloped—when it is wrung dry,
but, at last, is far away, so the panic begins to drain
from the chest, from the wonderful legs, and the
exhausted mind.

Oh sweetness pure and simple, may I join you?

I lie down next to them, on the sand. But to tell
about what happens next, truly I need help.

Will somebody or something please start to sing?