A rose. Think of it.
How like a rose we are.
Beginning as seed, gently, a bud.
How we open,
slowly,
never seeing our petals born;
never guessing when, at last,
the last
will fall.
And when we wither,
wrinkle and darling grey:
the beautiful rose that lived.
Think of it.
How easily we forget who we are.
Devine and growing.
Think of it.
Think of how lovely.
A rose to meet the morning bright,
to grow in cheer,
to gather life.
Yet day to day
the rose does wither,
day to day the rose does wither,
lost
beneath the foggy dreary.
Lost.
Beneath.
How is a rose to gather
honey sweet
from deep blue trees?
How is a rose to grow
in the dark
of uncaring
life?
How is a rose to grow?
A rose is just a rose
to those who choose
not to know her.
brooke-cutler.com 