“Why does hope spring after tragedy?
Is it weakness in sorrow, a failure of grief?
What makes us look up and watch for the dawn?”
Wiping away his tears, his Teacher softly answered,
“‘It’s elementary, my dear Watson,’
We were made for eternity
Not this life alone.”
Roses he gave her, she took them in her hand
The petals silk warm, still harboring his touch
She knew not where to look, his face was a beacon
A desire of yearning, too bright to stare upon,
So she stared at the roses, their rosy tinge her own.
The years they raced by full of home, hearth, and heaven
Their love knew no bounds and their eyes saw no other
Until the day came when a lone grave boasted roses
One standing alone to see light like a beacon, eclipsed,
And roses ice crusted by death’s wintry dew.
a rose to you and you and you
dear readers that stumbled onto this page
and familiar friends who’ve long remained
through drought or storm as balmy days
faithful ones who exchange the fruits
gleaned from weedy words and pruned vines
some tangy to the taste or sweetly spiced
all enlivened with the sunlit labor of moments
transcribed to screens of dispersed bytes
to be received like petals furled and unfurled
as if a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
when given in love
For Cee's FOTD, February 14, 2021; Michelle's February Writing Prompts, "Balmy Days"; Joseph's 2021 Home Photo Challenge; also posted on PilgrimDreams.com
For Cee’s July 25th FOTD challenge, a mystery of loveliness, yellow sunshine from above caught in a buttery flush below.