My Mother, A Rose

If my relationship to you, my mother, were a rose bush,

It would be defined by its thorns.  For they would be the size of apples, hard as steel, sharp and pointed as shards of broken glass.  The thorns dominate this bush intended for beauty.

And the roses, oh the roses small as to rival the stature of dung beetles. Roses not only small but gray without a trace of the sun light which eagerly nourished it with hopes of heavenly color to brighten the world.  No, no, only gray, small and cold. 

It seems the roses exist only to prove its existence as a "rose bush."