The Loss of a Rose
The flower raised its little head
And grew up from the flower bed
To squint into the clouded sky
“How beautiful, Oh Lord, am I?”
“Sweet little rose bud that you are
You shall be lovelier by far.”
The rose then shook its pretty head
And tried to stretch its petals red,
But feared the wind and heat of day,
“No Lord, I shall remain this way.”
“Sweet little flower, do you see
How much more you can surely be?”
“I do not wish to take the chance!
Do I not, as I am, entrance?
I fear the pain my life could hold
If I should break out from this mold.”
“My rose, to bloom is why you live.
Why would you scorn the life I give?”
“I am afraid…” the flower cried,
“I will be safer if I hide.”
The flower then began to wilt…
Beneath the weight of fear and guilt.
“My beauty, every flower dies.
But not each lives… open your eyes.”
But ah, it closed itself within,
Enfolded by its silken skin,
And never its true beauty found
But ever gazed toward the ground
And the Creator, far above,
Mourned for the loss of life and love.
– s. Clark