A fallen Rose, its petals stout,
Lay on the garden floor.
A victim of a summer storm
It seemed to be no more.
A grateful hand then picked it up
And trembling at the sight,
Gave comfort to the rose that day
And long into the night.
Tho’ grateful for the tender touch
And spoken words of praise,
The Rose remembered oh so well
The Storm of recent days.
wrapped its windy arms around
And forced the Rose to bend.
And breaking, fell upon the ground
Where petals might not mend.
Tho’ safe within another’s arms
The Rose was injured still,
And only tenderness and love
Could take away the chill.
The Grateful Bearer of the Rose
In spite of well-meant care
Placed the Rose upon the shelf,
Admired its beauty there.
But then the Rose began to speak
With tenderness and care,
Words that came from deep within
A heart that longed to share.
” Remember, I am still a Rose
In need of special care,
For unattached to stem or branch
I can’t be happy there”
“If loving me is what you do
Then you must do your part,
To put me in a special place
That mends my broken heart.”
“For if you place me on the shelf
Where petals dry and break,
What matters well-intentioned heart
If mine is left to ache?”
“Rethink your plan, and if you can
Be what I need you see,
And I will stay your freshest Rose
For all Eternity.”