Each Petal nestles closely in the nest,
a budding cup of velvet pristine pink
that sits upon the stalk of thorns to rest,
before she opens up her wings to drink;
and at the heart the bees begin to settle,
the rose is thankful for attention here,
she nods her head, and flutters every petal,
her pleasing perfume always brings a cheer.
And as the seasons change, the rose will die,
her beauty fades and with it summer’s glow;
the Autumn leaves will fall, the winds are high,
and dormant winter purifies with snow.
Until next year when roses then return,
I’ll hibernate, although for them I yearn.