Day Twenty-Eight: Love is Roses and Thorns

he was a child
In a garden of roses
blossoms, tenderly grown
one evening, he reaped
the red roses
leaving a trail of strewn petals,
a wake of blood drops
to his mother dear
who with a smile took the half-petaled stalks
thorns and all,
and put a kiss on his hurts
one red rose whose thorns were

he was a friend
turned lover
a blossom
for her,
one noon in high spring,
white roses in a bouquet
for his bride
petals cast into the air
like doves, to rain on them
one white rose in her hair
from a garden of
roses with thorns

he was a child
young, dimpled innocent
sitting before a newly dug hole
covered with roses
standing nearby, tears hugged
the cheeks of the father
red and white, dozens of blooming
flowers, for her casket
grown by her, for her
a loving farewell
to a grandmother, a mother
with roses and thorns


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