Time prickles its victims
Death spikes out families and
Life gives no retries

A sea of flowers bright and blooming, I see on my left.
On my right shines a field of spikes and barbs.
I look up at the sky and ask for help.
'Choose, choose, choose, choose, choose!' God says.

I choose to wait.

I once passed by an old lady's garden,
Lined with colored rose bushes, it was like Heaven!
I stopped...I stood, admiring.
The roses were in full bloom that morning.
They were quite tall, like small trees side by side.
Then I noticed other walkers also stopped by.
Beside me, behind me, they were standing,
Sighing, admiring.

Any place, anywhere it stands,
Attention, it instantly commands
Its petals speak of beauty, of fragrance,
To some, they symbolize unspoken devotion.
Its different colors are known to represent
Feelings, specifically, lovers' emotions.

Underneath its hard spiked body, it still is soft.
Its thorns have sharp perfect points
A protective threat, so
inherent,
A powerful deterrent
For those with evil intent.

Its sweet-smelling petals become softer
When held by hands so tender,
To the birds and the bees, they are a teaser,
Butterflies, even dragonflies,
They cannot resist to perch...
We human beings
Can never resist a sniff, a touch,
Love is the stem of a rose, we still dare hold
We disregard the thorns so bold.
In life, there are pricking scares known, yet ignored.
Like the leaves of a rose, we have hidden spikes, our own stories untold,
Our hearts, our feelings are very delicate,
When the arrows hit, ...they're easy to captivate.

But you see,
A rose stands tall
Proud as a concrete wall,
It bows a bit, it gives way
When blooms bear too much weight,
When things seem to always be a prelude
And, we wait for trying moments to conclude.
But when a morning so new
Greets a rose with its cold, fresh dew
Miraculously, it again stands tall,
Proud as a concrete wall.
It survives through the seasons,
"Sleepy" in winter, not at all dying,
Just patiently waiting.
It speaks beyond words, beyond reasons,
For underneath,
It lives.
In its silence,
It survives.

A
rose will
never be a
rose, without its
rough surfaced
leaves and
tho
r
n
......s......
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:::

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan


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