The Bitter Rose

An observation of futility

Mayhap bitter doth fall the rose
That descends upon but to repose
‘Pon what once was and now is clad
In wood, lost life to lost life sad

Perchance she dreams as she descends
To nether darkness and portends
A fate of Springtime fair and new
Cut short, the prime she never knew

And to the hand that cast the flowr’
Bequeathed to thus bereave the hour
Might she justly curse the throw
To languish there where none will know

A beauty born of May’s new prime
In fields of Nature’s green sublime
Red face to greet blue’s morning light
Green leaves to catch Spring’s soft moonlight.