The Rose Delicate, From a slim green twig, The morning dew drips; A bud is born from the night’s chill. The morning rays warm and beckon And little by little, This symbol for me opens. Spreading its pedals, Moist and fresh; The scent is in my nose. Placed in a vase; It is beginning to wilt. The rose reminded me As it slowly died; Time is passing, No matter what. I return to existence. I threw her rose From a moving window In the night, As love died And I moved on. The world beckons, More lessons to learn. The bush will be bare Through the winter, But my heart will heal And bring spring to life; Fresh blossoms into bloom.
Thank you for this. Even when pricked by thorns, or made witness to decay, the essence and memories remain... and yes we blossom, anew. Etheric and luminous in our newness.
