The Lonely Rose

The Lonely Rose

A flower grew so solitaire, amongst the golden grass,

She stood and watched the breeze so fair,

Counting blades until the last.

So tall and true, her roots they grew,

Alive in grounds below,

The worms they chewed, the mice scurried through,

The sanctity the field bestowed.

She guarded with her beauty hence,

With nothing more then her pretense,

Of where the days they go.

Alone below the yellow sun, and tired rain,

They became as one, as time begot the snow.

And winter frost, in haste it froze,

Her petals into glinting ice.

No beauty lost, the loveless rose,

Her wilt the winters sacrifice.

At long last, in the chill so dense,

The rose she fell and died.

Her stem and roots in cold below, the fallen snow,

Brought tears to natures cry.

Forever in the seasons then to future come,

The field of grass below the yellow sun,

Evoked her gracious memory.

For one warm season, not without its reason,

The rose of lonely reverie.