Long-Stem Roses in a Shattered Mirror

The linkage of roses to women and romance has ancient roots, but the emblem is undeniable. The knight brought the rose and a promise, manifesting a sacred duty, after all. Or so the boy had been taught. Wars have been fought under their banners. A dozen long stem roses delivered in a wrapped box is supposed to make the recipient swoon in gratitude and recognition. Gertrude Stein insisted we need to keep looking closely. Is the subject a flower or an anatomical examination or someone you know named Rose? And then add smells and memories to your associations.
The rose becomes complicated, for sure.
Love is blind, as the cliché goes, but breakups can be painfully eye-opening. The resulting fractures and fragments open fresh awarenesses connections
Roses come in many sizes, colors, and even shapes, some of them distinctively aromatic, others much less so. Breeders pursue many varied qualities, from disease-resistance and an ability to grow well in specific climates to shape, size, and color. Just sample some of their resulting variety names, as reflected in the titles of these poems.
And then when petals fall from roses given as an expression of forever, “Do you love me?” becomes a meaningless question. In the fractured mirror, even the unopened blossoms shatter.
In any relationship, it’s hard enough to know your own actions and thoughts completely or accurately, much less anyone else’s. Misunderstandings are inevitable  “You promised,” “I never said that,” “Why didn’t you phone?” “I did what?”
Gaps in a sexual relationship become especially obvious during a breakup. Like a mirror that smashes to the floor, whatever was envisioned comes apart. Spider webs appear, the reflection distorts. Here, silences  the interstices of what is unseen or left unsaid  become as important as what is harshly trumped or cruelly enacted. Sometimes, it appears that figures previously hidden by the mirror itself now become visible; even motions that had been observed but dismissed return with ominous significance. Excuses no longer suffice.
Moreover, if one partner has been cheating, the mask itself now drops away. Some misunderstandings, it turns out, were intentional. “I know I said that, but I never meant it.” Stones, then, are finally thrown directly at the looking glass, and through it. A hammer is held in the fist.
But there’s no escape, now, is there.
Anybody’s mysterious romantic wiring predates adolescence and sexual awakening but certainly infuses so much of what unfolds later, much like a rose blossom.
Beyond that, there’s the flower breeder’s quest to create a perfect variety within a vast span of colors and shapes to this project. Just what makes one rose differ from another? Maybe it’s just the day or your mood at the moment.
Don’t overlook the thorns, either. They’re where everything turns dicey. Especially the way they prick at any illusions.
That’s all in the background of these poems exploring the quest of romantic bliss.
Yes, chivalry calls, as does the goddess Aphrodite.
You remember how young love felt, don’t you? Or how it smelled?
Or how much it hurt, too.