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A rose, another name for a rose,
sublimely gifted artist, honest,
time-worn, blithely unseen season grows.
Me, who is more than mother dearest?
Meager cutting from bouquet I chose;
religious, tattered and quite modest
as an innocent child blindly goes.
Changing poet of verse and of prose.
Rose, I chose, ilk sounds in the forest.
A rhythmic mundane poetic pose.
Me, who is more than mother dearest?
2/10/2019
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2019
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