Today I took a photo of the open four-inch deep book of prose where I randomly placed my Dad's rose in February 1985. It was wrapped in waxed paper, but I removed it to take the picture.
The Rose Dear Dad- I plucked a crimson rose that lay upon your grave, as icy rain fell down and joined my warm, wet tears that winter day. Unto my heart, I pressed it close to drown my mournful thoughts and feelings deep inside. And then I numbly made my way back home to grieve and heal with loved ones by my side. But soon they left, and I was all alone. That night I placed the crimson rose within a random place inside a book of prose and it pressed flat for quite some time therein. One day I opened it to find I chose the place that God directed me to lay that rose in answer to my prayers of where you were in death so that my heart could say that everlasting life was yours to share. What I had hoped I know for sure is true- for words upon the page where that rose slept, "The Grave," by Robert Blair, bodes life anew- in God’s eternal life our souls are kept. My keepsake rested in a book of prose- God’s intervention was my only guide. Mid secret pages dried your crimson rose- God’s answer to my prayer- with thanks, I cried. Sandra M. Haight ~1st Place~ Contest: Any Sad Poem Sponsor: Broken Wings Judged: 12/23/2015 ~2nd Place~ Contest: Not Your Average Ballade Sponsor: Catie Lindsey Judged: 05/09/2015
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