The Rose

The Rose

The rose
In my backyard
Is a maze of
Silky petals
Swirling together
To form a spiral like shape
Untouchable
I will never hold it
In my hand.

The steam is
The opposite of soft
It is as if the rose
Has built up a wall
Of protective thorns
To hide something more
Beautiful and precious
Like a treasure buried
Beneath the sand
Like the moon hidden
Behind clouds.

A careless thought
Would be inclined
To pick it up,
To ruin it’s beautie
To let it wither on the table
Forgotten and alone.

A rose blooms in winter
For some reason
I do not know why
But it did
And I am not hear
To question it
Only to witness it
And that I have done.