The Rose



It was beautiful
With an eloquent long green stem
Reaching upward embracing full red petals
That burned bright in the late season sun

For long weeks it had struggled
Growing slowly up from the ground
Passionately stretching towards the life-giving light
Yearning to bud, then to blossom

With tender care from a lovely young gardener
Who nurtured the infant rose
Even though it was late in the season
The rose grew stronger everyday

And when it finally opened its flower
It was such a splendid creation
Blue crested birds sang sweet songs
To honor its radiant glory

For weeks it shown crimson
Swaying to and fro in the afternoon breeze
At night dewdrops gave it gentle kisses
Then ran off with the morning sun

But as it was late in the season
God’s precious gift now stood alone
For the other roses had all been taken
And sent off to lovers unknown

And the gardener who had once lovely nourished
This late blooming beautiful rose
Now became busy with other things
And thus the rose was left sadly unattended

But there were other things now more important
Than this single fading flower
For this growing season was now over
And the next would soon begin

At times the gardener would take pause and smile
As she looked at her beautiful late blossom
And every once in a great while
She would stop nearby to pull a weed or two

Yet without some care or attention
Without contact or loving touch
Everything must wither
And so it was with the beautiful red rose

Slowly, painfully, the bright red petals faded
And one by one fell wistfully to the ground
The long green stem turned brittle, bent and brown
Until it bowed its once fiery blossom in everlasting sorrow

A poet once said, “Love is like a rose”
And I believe that it is true
For both are God’s precious gifts
Even when they are late in the season

Love, like a rose, when nurtured
Will grow stronger everyday
And when they finally blossom
They are truly beautiful to behold

But alas, love, like the rose
When abandoned, left unattended
Withers on the vine
To die a sad and lonely death

Yet one must pause and wonder
At which choice the gardener chose
Whether to harvest this precious flower
Or to let it die and wilt away

For it seems now to this poor flower
As it wilts and slowly fades
That the death of this beautiful, bright red rose
Was sadly the gardener’s true intent



Michael Tank

07/28/06


"Copyright 2006. Michael E. Tank All rights reserved. No part of this document may be copied, faxed, electronically transmitted, or in any other manner duplicated without express written permission of the author."


Previous     Next

Please Sign My Guest Book By Clicking On Our Flag



Thank You and God Bless