The Rose

One small seed that stood the test of time,
dry and unforgotten yet waiting to be defined.

Planted by hand with a loving touch
the seed is sown released from ones clutch.

Sprouting up, the soil gives way,
for what is to become from a stem to modestly convey.

The stem expresses itself with carline like thistle,
embellished toward the top with leaves of bristle.

Standing fastagate above quite boastfully
is a tiny red bud perched ever so demurely.

The bud slowly reveals a rose in bloom
hermetically sealed as to emerge from within a cocoon.

The sun rise shines, her peddles now open
the brilliance of color like music with words unspoken.

Kissed ever so softly by the sweet morning dew
giving way to a splendorous order that only she knew.

With velvet red peddles adorned in such splendor,
as soft as baby's breath with hearts so tender.

In one final act her stem is now broken,
carefully nestled for others to open.

Like in pages of Trollope
bound between undeniable redeeming words of hope.

Life that once was remains in pose
the flourishing essence of
The rose.