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R. H. W. Dillard

In the Silent Secret Dark

In the dark, invisible, is the rose red? By any other name? Röslein rot? Rose rouge? Rosa roja? In a vase? A long stem wrapped in folded paper? Held in a careful hand, or twirled by eager fingers in the dark? A rose in full bloom, a bud, or one already blown? Even in bright daylight or dim moonlight, if the rose is red, is the rose’s red, primary or secondary: objective, a wave length, blossoming of photons; or subjective, a sensation in an eye? And in the dark, unseen, is the rose red? Man kann an die Rose im Finstern als rot, says Wittgenstein, denken, (one can imagine the rose red), but I can imagine that you are here. In the silent secret dark, the rose is.

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