I sit here in the garden, in the autumn sunlight.
I tend to my roses.
Symbols of lives, lived yet not lived
their blooms, the beautiful memories
their thorns, the harsh reality that life will
never be the same. The pain that life brings.
New growth springs from the fertile soil
that has been toiled with love.
Love for the tiny lives that they have come
to symbolise.
The roses are sturdy, yet fragile.
They are beautiful, but they have an
ugly side.
The thorns that prick,
cause pain and cause the heart to bleed.
A heart that is already pained and
bleeding from its loss.
The Rose, the keeper of memories and
the keeper of pain.