Written By: Leora Mansoor


The rose that blooms before its time,

in winter when the trees are stark,

is no more beautiful than a rose garden.


But with each petal that starts to wilt,

feels so much more than what’s to come

when a hundred petals fall by ones,

and suffocate the floor.


Tended with the utmost care,

you love a thing that barely lives,

yet with each precious bud that blooms,

you cut their heads.

For why should you let them brave the cold

when you cannot brave their deaths?


Each rose that grows before its time

is a little death for you,

the red that glows in the stark cold

plants a darkness inside of you.


But you know it is a mercy,

to stop a thing before it dies,

before you cannot stop its cries

and wait till summer time.


I know you find it hard to grow

when summer’s nearly here

and think of all the roses gone,

that grew throughout the year.

I know you find it hard to see

those summer babies grow,

all gushing with the same red glow

that your premature rosebuds knew.


When winter comes another time,

perhaps a rose will bloom,

a rose you will not have to pick

for your fear of winter’s gloom.


Perhaps a rose can come too soon

and still have a chance to thrive,

I’m sure that there will come this day,

when winter breathes in life.


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