My Rose
My Rose
Were they the better in the wild,
untouched, or did their worth
and beauty increase, because in awe,
we cut them from their roots and
in blind hope of beauty contained,
and ego served, presented them,
as gift. One beauty dead as ode to
beauty of another. One flower’s
smile to wilt to wrest a smile
from another. One petals cheek
to dry and crisp away to bring
a tear to cheek of another. One
blush of floral red faded in exchange
for feigned blush of another.
Would not the giver and receiver
and the flower more enjoyed the
feel of sun and breeze and warmth
of touch, shared awesome beauty
of the rose, allowed to pose “au naturel”
and bide its time in nature’s cycle
in tune with sun and moon
and stars, in symphony of birds
and bugs and frogs? For were
the rose to come and pick your
beauty from my sight for sole
purpose of enticement of another,
I would be cheated, and betrayed
By beauty’s seeking to adorn itself
in beauty.
John G. Lawless
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