The Roses that Bloomed in My Mother's Garden

There were roses that bloomed in my mother's garden.

Rich reds, yellows, and fruity oranges,

all splattered like paint on a plain canvas.

My mother's roses,

unlike my brother's metals,

bloomed with a different type of life.

They were forged by the heat of love

which spurred from the rich soil.

My mother's graces

gave mercy to the weeds;

a pity would fall on them,

but my her love for pretty things

and her desire to protect that which

the earth rightfully produced when surrounded by goodness,

raised itself on a higher level.

The roses which bloomed in my mother's garden,

detested winter.

Death, destruction, degradation.

The petals would fall akin to blood on snow.

The stems would grow weak

and the thorns transformed into icicles,

punishing the hand that fed them.

The day comes, but frost descends

and soon, the marvelous roses

which once delighted my home

and spread joy,

begin to wilt.

Their hope, which assures them that spring will come again,

binds them to the soil

and to my heart.