a winters rose

In the quiet chambers of winter’s heart, 
where shadows cling like frost-kissed memories, 
there blooms a solitary rose. 
Not petals of crimson or blush, 
but delicate layers of ice and resilience.

It beats, not with the warmth of summer sun, 
but with the quiet strength of survival—
for love, for endurance, for beauty in the harshest season.

This rose, my rose, is a frozen flame. 
Its thorns etched by biting winds, 
its fragrance carried on icy breath. 
It stands defiant, 
a fragile sentinel against the snow-laden world. 
Each petal, a testament to endurance; 
each frost-kissed vein, a map of resilience.

Behold! The winter’s rose, 
neither crimson nor scarlet, 
but silvered and steadfast. 
Its roots anchored in frozen soil, 
its bloom a whispered promise—
a fragile beauty that defies the season’s cruelty.

For love, too, can thrive in frost. 
And this rose, this frozen flame, 
shall be our silent rebellion against winter’s grasp.