A Rose for Mia Cara

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

Or purple

Pulling it up to the joyous light.