Like a Rose

Her life was like a rose
a flower’s fragrance
delicate and sensual
a bud tight and hidden
‘neath the thorn bush
but only for awhile.

The Age of Innocence
was her time
and innocent she was
no plumes waving in the wind
no reeds rising past the dunes

No . . .
not this flower
She was a flower of a different kind
and aren’t we all
buds at the start
some hidden by the brush
some . . . facing towards the sun
waiting for the good rain
all of us?
Waiting for the bits of pollen
blowing and riding
on the wind
to give us life
and color and oh, such
sweet delights.

She was one
who opened to the sunshine
pushing though the thorns
greeting all that came her way
with love and petals soft.

She was ours . . .
and we loved her so
even as the petals fell
even as the old thorns tore her flesh
gentle still was she
her last drops
perfumed blessings
in the garden we remember . . . .