“A Rose”
A Rose,
A red, red, Rose.
So beautiful,
So Pure.
Born a bud,
Nothing Special.
Yet as it grew,
It glowed.
In every and each,
Well shaped Petal,
Was a hidden story,
Waiting to be told.
A story of Love,
A story of Tears,
Of Yearning so strong,
Of Passion so bright.
Colored like Dawn,
With soft velvet tints.
Mild violets, Pleasant pinks,
And Pale Pastel yellows.
A Fragrance,
A sweet, sweet, Scent.
Its smell so full,
So wholesome.
Blushing like a maiden,
It opened itself,
With the first warmth,
The first light.
Wondrous flower,
Blooming plant,
It had its evils,
Even in its innocent core.
Jealous and protective,
Like a possessive mother,
The watchful stem,
Was armed with thorns.
Leaves of dark green,
Thick and yielding.
Pretty, tender,
And Ever waving.
A short life indeed,
For such a marvel,
Who ranks high,
Among the blossoms.
Although in old age,
All shivered up,
It had elegance,
It had style.
Its leaves turn dark,
A dark, dark, shade.
Some like wine,
Like blood of the heart.
Even in its age,
Its old, old, age,
The Rose was graceful,
It stood proud.
Even in death,
Dried to the root,
It kept its aroma,
And its rich purple hue.
Oh Rose,
Oh dainty, dainty, Rose.
Its life never wasted,
Its death ever noble.
…A Rose
ã 1999 Lady of Scartha. All rights reserved.