My Rose

My Rose Were they the better in the wild, untouched, or did their worth and beauty increase, because in awe, we cut them from their roots and in blind hope of beauty contained, and ego served, presented them, as gift. One beauty dead as ode to beauty of another. One flower’s smile to wilt to wrest a smile from another. One petals cheek to dry and crisp away to bring a tear to cheek of another. One blush of floral red faded in exchange for feigned blush of another. Would not the giver and receiver and the flower more enjoyed the feel of sun and breeze and warmth of touch, shared awesome beauty of the rose, allowed to pose “au naturel” and bide its time in nature’s cycle in tune with sun and moon and stars, in symphony of birds and bugs and frogs? For were the rose to come and pick your beauty from my sight for sole purpose of enticement of another, I would be cheated, and betrayed By beauty’s seeking to adorn itself in beauty. John G. Lawless