Reaching for the sun,
Perfectly made and admired,
It is a piece of art,
It is highly desired.

I wonder how a rose,
Being so beautiful,
Could ever feel worthless,
When it is such a jewel.

I wonder how a rose,
Could ever feel hurt,
I only see perfection,
It sees thorns, rain and dirt.

How can the rose not see,
Thorns, rain and dirt are planned,
Not to punish, but to help it,
Be the best it can?