Young, tall, and closed;
Potent, red, and soft.
Prickly, menacingly beautiful stem,
Razor edged leaves,
Baby soft pedals.
Rose buds are meticulous;
They are fragrant,
But they aren’t ready.
Seasons come to an end.
Changes occur,
And the rose blossoms.
Pedals reaching for the sun,
Yearning to fly-
As the sun rolls over the sky,
And disappears over the horizon;
The beauty wilts-
Cold ice soon blankets the stem.
Cracking, shriveling-
The pedals fall one by one.
Soon the stem is bare and ugly;
And the sad, dead rose is gone.
But the pedals;
Thought shriveled and dry-
Carry their sweet scent forever.