the rose

Red, soft green and sharp, it has a sort of thistle part, the fragrance that flows on the air, so simply sweet you cannot compare,

Beauty not in the leaf but in the flower, it makes a truly lovely bower, the dainty oh so pedaled edge, the dew drops hang upon their ledge,

Its lovely call extends so far, yet near as if to say come close. But do not touch for the prick you get is not much, just enough to swell from within a red drop its color akin, to that of the rich red dainty rose its laughter reaching your haughty nose, you should have listened, says its well meaning voice I warned you fools of it more than thrice.

Her colors so bold so perfectly toned, all showing her perfection within, there her sweet-smelling fragrance originates in. She has no flaws her creation is true so perfectly made for me and you, she needs not your vain loving stares for to know, her beauty it has always been there. But not of this she bothers, as she gayly grows with not a care in the world except your bothersome probes, and winter may fall, yet spring may come but she is forever the same flower of one.