Something there is that doesn’t love a rose;
The biting wind, the unrelenting rain,
The first hint of the coming winter’s chill
That will not suffer flowers to remain.

Something there was that did not love our Rose
The renegade cells whose blood destroying will
Seeped into the bones and her soft tissues
and on the warmest day left our Rose chilled.

Now our Rose lies still in her Sunday best
Her hands composed for prayer and ever sleep.
Something there was that didn’t let Rose live.
A circumstance that makes a grown man weep.