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I watched it as it was born in the drenching rains of spring, 
Cool condensation drops left over from winter's cold, 
As it grew and grew and finally pedaled 
Into a white, but, quite young rose. 

As a child of youth, it swayed in spring and summer 
Breezes, winds and gales, heat and cold, 
Its petals enlarged and its fragrance became 
A daily delight to inhale whenever bumble bees had gone. 

Maturing, it grew beautifully, along with its siblings, 
Arrayed upon so many branches of its home, the rose bush tree, 
And provided me a diversion by its beauty from my daily 
Worries and concerns - and life's hustles and bustles. 

But alas, summer could not sustain itself beyond its appointed time 
And began fading into fall, that time of red, yellow, brown and golden leaves, 
Browning and dying tall grasses, shortening daylights and cooling evenings, 
Deep into this Indian summer, onward towards winter’s cold and snows. 

It gradually lost a pedal here, a pedal there, a pedal every other day 
And finally had but one white pedal left which I watched fall floatingly 
Down upon browned and yellowed grasses dying, leaving but its sprig 
Upon its home rose tree branch in September breezes. 

It had lived. It was bloomed and went through its cycle of days and months, 
Sunrises, sunsets, moon sets and moon rises of silver shines, 
Folks admiring its beauty and inhaling its stirring fragrances, as I had done, 
And in its time succumbed to natures laws of life and death. 

If it did nothing else, such as make a great discovery, climb Mt. Everest, 
Win Olympic gold medals, become pope in the Vatican, it did a greater thing 
In reminding me life is short; we must enjoy it now – it will be gone tomorrow 
 - This last white rose of summer. 

W.C.Hull © 2020-23-9-772 (D)

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