The rose sits quietly,
Buried in the earth
Waiting,
Waiting to be chosen,
By someone she could also choose.
Many have glanced at the brilliance of her hue,
But they would not choose.
Some have uprooted her stems, only to place her down again,
Changing their minds upon further inspection
Silently she waits for the one who would take her,
To make her their own,
To never return her to the soil alone.
This is love, to choose and be chosen in return,
An exchange of hearts without reserve
This is love, though few are courageous enough to give.
But this is love, nonetheless,
And she will wait still.