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.
