The rose is a memory, its aroma a time machine. Its transience condenses a poignancy, an urge to savour the moment as the sweetest joy. Built of light and sugar as it is, how could it not be sweet? How could it not whisper-sing of the finest days. It is indeed the bonniest flag of love, it’s standard bearer in the summer breeze. To linger near is to realise a state of once elusive calm. Live in this garden o’rose, rooted deep and strong. Drink the rain and sun the same. Bask in beaming birdsong. Rose, live your days, live well each one.
The chattering brook did coddle the wild roses with tales of merriment. Upon escaping the walled garden, upon outgrowing the gardener’s shears, the blooms bounded into the woodland’s sweet company. Grow! Grow! They sang in choir fashion, yet more as a raucous sea shanty. “Was there ever a floral party so gay, so gay, as where grows the wildest rose? Was there ever a floral party so gay, so gay, as where grows the wildest rose? No! No! Never there was, so let in the wildest rose!”
The rose was a radiance of red-velvet smiles, softly laughing in the summer breeze. Of her aroma, she gave freely. Of her days, she loved completely, savouring each one. When rain tickled her roots she’d giggle with the innocence of her kind. When the sun shone she’d reach upward to bask and glow. Long stemmed, head full, as if she were dreamed into existence, she was the flower all eyes warmed to.
The rose was a woven red sun, a bonny thing of inner-light. It envied not the swoop of the birds, for its roots long hugged the earth. It envied neither rabbit nor vole, for its dreams belonged above ground. It envied neither stranger nor friend, for to be a rose was a wondrous thing. How it dreamed night and day of the gayest poetry. All loved the rose and the rose loved all.
The heart has many sweet protective petals, closed until it feels a true spring and opens as a rose.
My love keeps you safe as the silken layers of petals upon a rose. Stay there if you wish. My heart is yours as long dwell there.
Rose petals in the opening bud were each a fresh new page, a page upon which their love story would be written.
Roses grew as if the slumbering earth had dreamed them during its wintry days.
Each petal hugged around the rose bud, protective of its sweet centre.
Come the dawn, come the light, come the orchestra of the birds, for the roses are in bloom.