A tender rose upon the thorn is gently dewed by early morn.
From babies breath to bloom full grown she sits upon her rightful throne.

Fragrant so, and ever sweet, deep mossy green about her feet.

This garden queen of regal red whose velvet petals crown her head,
Has set a price for every bud, she requires a drop of blood.

There on a knarled knot of thorn, another tender rose is born.

01/28/2003

Posted on 01/29/2003
Copyright © 2025 Mary Ellen Smith