The white rose

White rose.png

It did not surprise him, hearing them call her ‘White Rose’ seeing
how quickly she wilted under scrutiny. Her tender petals dewy
in the morning, soft as a hare’s ear, then out in the heavy sun
with an interlude of rain, finding some of them upon the grass-
others curled up on the edges, worn and finished. This rose,
this damsel he kept his eye upon when she would allow it, without
turning him away from her door, said, ‘it is you, ’tis you’ and smiled
knowing somehow by the next rising of the sun, her time
would be finished, and her usefulness, gone

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