Rose, you are not a risk taker,
waiting ‘til June to show your face.
You are certainly a fair weather friend.
We anxiously await you!
Rose, you’re almost too perfect to grow in my gardens –
deep red, white, pink, or peach;
velvet-sweet perfume mixes
in the summer’s warm breezes.
Rose, you climb the trellis
as if you think you can escape the earth,
your thick stem, long and green,
reaching for the morning sunlight.
Rose, you are a mystery to me.
How can anything so beautiful have thorns?
How can anything so beautiful cause so much pain?
Why do I forget to wear my gloves each time I choose you?
Rose, I like you best in a tall glass vase
surrounded by your friends Daisy, Fern, and Alstroemeria –
Gracing my kitchen table where golden sunlight
spreads like sweet honey over tables, chairs, and floor.
Rose, perhaps by any other name you would smell as sweet.
You are the symbol of true love.
You are the garden’s true queen.
You are the flower I admire most (and sometimes curse!)