When arrayed with branches of five leaves, the rosebush is content. Then “suckers” appear, seven-leaf shoots that poison its life. Dare not embrace the rose, nor surrender to its charms! Fear the prick of the rose! And if these toxic branches did no harm?
A sucker, like a surrogate shiver of desire, a frisson of pleasure? Leave them in peace in a rosebush tryst to bloom in silence. Savor languid moments of ecstasy.
The gaze, shifting from the heady blooms, the intoxicating red of the roses, to the evocative shapes of clouds blithely intertwining on high, beholds, like a small miracle, a fluffy seahorse. Patience and satisfaction are written aloft in the clouds, a clairvoyant beatnik sign, a promise of peace and love!