A single rose in morning’s breath
Unfolds its heart, defying death
Its crimson tongue, both soft & wise
Whispers of truths beyond the skies

It drinks the light, it bears the thorn
It grieves for love & is reborn
Each petal sings of unseen grace
A thousand suns within its face

No temple grand, no steepled spire
Can match its quiet, wordless fire
The rose becomes, without a plea
The prayer it was always meant to be

Note: The picture below is a rose that has recently bloomed from our garden outside. The rosebush we planted a few years ago is doing very well almost in spite of us! Neither us have a green thumb, but the roses are indeed turning out to be beautiful.