How sad is it
To love a rose that wilts before your eyes.
But to love that rose till its demise
Is all that one can hope for.
Thorns fall away to let you in
And permit your gentle touch
Of which it was so unfamiliar.
For, in particular
There is something to be said for romance being in the brush
Of an artist,
Or a musician’s touch,
Or all too much
For the study of the past.
Those thorns which now lie on the floor,
All but forgotten,
Leave the beauty of a flower in deepest red
Pulling it up to the joyous light.