Seven Pink Roses

Upon an old cottage windowsill
 

Within a white chipped vase

Seven pale pink roses droop,

Peering pensively at the stars;

The Pleiades, the “Seven Sisters"

Burn faintly in the night sky

Casting just a little light

Upon those roses soon to die,

Yet, those radiant stars glowing

Stirred a warmth within

The heart of each one

Like a pulse beneath ones skin

Animating a strong urge,

A need to often look to

Those stars of a blue fire;

Thus, that night they pulled through.

Now they share an affinity

Not previously felt before,

And a keener sense of purpose

This influence did restore;

A fresher, greener hue

Pervades each crinkled leaf

And no longer is there black gloom

Or air of outright grief;

Now each uplifted head

Seems to show a glow

Of joy, of utter contentment,

The kind that loved ones know.