A rose fell
off my garden,
And on the soil,
it fell.
A little
dusted – a little soiled,
But it wasn’t
spoiled, I could tell.
A kid picked
it up
Another,
for it, had a fight
I picked up
the now wet flower
Only to
avoid its plight.
A book gave
it some room to sleep,
Between its
pages bright
And then
both were lost in the dark,
Lost to the
human sight.
Years then
passed, my fingers dark
And when a
few yellow pages were turned
There was a
rose, now dried and old
Retelling of
its great grand run.
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