Oriana Lezama Poet Rhyme

In Bloom and Fade

Roses are red
or so we’ve been told,
a neat little truth
the world likes to hold.

But I’ve watched them linger
past crimson and flame,
softening into purples,
into vintage, into almost-gone names.

Roses are red
until time has its say,
until petals grow tired
of being bright every day.

I love them in bloom,
all full of their youth,
open and fragrant
and certain of truth.

But there’s something holy
in watching them fall,
in colors that whisper
instead of calling.

They teach me that beauty
is not just the start
it lives in the fading,
the breaking apart.

Roses are red,
yes... briefly, it’s true.
But they’re also most honest
when they’re changing too.

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