There were some roses, once, a long time ago.
They grew out of nothing, out of a tiny seed that burst and ****** its contents out into the new and terrifying air, and even then they didn't exist but for the idea that one day they might.
There were some roses, once:
the product of a process that included water and light and the removal of weeds and the implementation sharp protection from predators: deer and birds and squirrels and the like.
There were some roses once:
great surges of crimson fruit that bloomed so fiercely in their rebellion against the surrounding thorns
dedicated to the protection of the home of the finely spun veined silk that blossomed almost overnight.
There were some roses once:
Never has such beauty been guarded so staunchly;
and with good reason, for the rose in its radiance has but one short season to stretch its arms and breathe its perfume to which all lovers beg and swoon.
There were some roses once:
They faded,
green
then red
then crimson
then purple and umber.
But in their slumber we see the bloom we once beheld on that summer day.
We fondled their petals, hastened their decay.
There were some roses once, a long time ago.
They had to die, as if on cue, as living things tend to do,
and oh, they dried so elegantly!
Plainly meant for royalty.
And even in their most brittle form, they're somehow warm
Somehow still new.
So you plant some more, you cut the weeds, you draw blood on their thorny guards,
knowing that it's not for you, but for the birds in their back porch churchyard.
And the moment the first rose peers around from inside the womb, well
there's your reward,
to forward the growth of something so fragile and sweet.
So ruthless if you aren't aware of its teeth.
