By Rosie Preston
A prelude to my mother’s poem
Many years ago, I know
my mom, had inside her heart
a mere seed, a flower
she held it for me
No way to see the path this flower would choose
blooming and growing with the seasons of life
often not a word was necessary to feel
the seed of a flower, it grew with us, never uttering a word
and held it close and deep
never let go of the little seed,
for you see it was only between my mother and me
through the years, the laugher, joy, and pain this little seed would bring…
as the little seed of the Rose was our secret
Could you have guessed?
Your life on Earth would end,
and yet the little seed is carried in my heart for you
it never leaves. It only changes, as the years take me back
if only I could’ve known through how the love was silenced
as I was looking with my eyes, and now I know the seed was never lost
but only sleeping in my heart
As I arrive at the cemetery with my small bucket and shovel in hand,
the little flower will offer comfort to all who will allow the beauty of the love
between a mother and her child.
The story of the Rose has a protection, barrier of sticky thorns.
It is there to protect the lifespan of the little seed, with its only hope being stated, “What a beautiful rose bush, and look at the rose buds!”
The Rose
I’ve seen flowers yet to bloom
They spring from seeds of unknown love
And faded as a tattered coat
Warm from a year of loving wear
Yet, thrown aside for forever, I fear
A tiny bud did never bloom
Its little leaf, all alone
Just stayed beside the tiny bloom
For she knew t’was all alone
For days the sun did hide and seek
The wind blew fiercely
The leaf felt weak
Yet she remained beside the bud.
And yearned to see a Rose appear
And there one day to my surprise
The bud unfolded right beside
The leaf was not so all alone
They stayed together in the sun
Until one day, a careless hand
Did cut the bud and leaf
And placed them in a vase
So greedy was the need, you see
Of human beings, such as me
The flower withered, oh so soon
And was tossed carelessly
Outside, close to where it was born
Never more to be, a bud, and
The leaf upon my tree.
By Shirley Preston
Keep smiling, Rosie