My Mother Was Like a Rose

My mother was like a rose beautiful at sight frail to touch. She could stand up and say her mind. She needed love I feel like she never got any. And that’s why she withered away like a rose. Her heart was pure, her soul made of gold. She’d rustle in the wind, and hide when cold, much like a blooming rose. Day by day a petal would drop ‘til nothing was left. She was the dying rose. And as each day goes by without her sweet melody, I tell myself this: I must not cry that she is gone but smile, she was here. Written by my 10-y.o. daughter Payton