The Last Rose

She is now the solitary rose of summer,
All alone in the evening sun’s lonely slumber.
Her friends now gone are but memories,
Only footnotes captured in someone’s pictures.

Never to become part of a wedding bouquet,
But made that garden special every single way.
Hearts and souls of many she has touched,
With a fragrant pale pink sweetness they loved.

Counting the days till all her petals will fall,
As the trees’ leaves change for the autumn ball.
Each one a tear over another summer gone,
Will anyone remember her as the world carries on?

© Fi S. J. Brown

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A Rose

The Rose

“Life is painful. It has thorns, like the stem of a rose. Culture and art are the roses that bloom on the stem. The flower is yourself, your humanity. Art is the liberation of the humanity inside yourself.” Daisaku Ikeda