In childish haste to grasp the rose,
She crushed it 'tween her fingers.
Now how to gently clasp she knows,
But its husk is all that lingers.
Yet the wilted rose is still to her most cherished,
And she finds no other flower for which she yearns.
So she leaves it beneath the rosebush, perished,
Nourishing it to bloom when, adult, she returns.
Author notes
Haven't really attempted poetry before, just had an idea.
What did you think
Comments
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welcome to all poetry
What wonderful comparisons to that which you have squandered and cannot regain. Lovely poem.
♥
Shawna
Site Greeter
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Humm...this is really a heartfelt story you shared with all your true logics of the love and true picture of he adoration of the sentiments..and thanks for sharing..
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