When the red roses die
will it make us cry.
Or let out a sigh.
I ask myself why.
The end is nigh.
For such blooms
of fabulous delight.
They’ve put up a good fight.
In summers warm plume.
Feasted on the light.
Survived the leaf blight.
Grown to an impressive height.
From their earthy winter tomb.
Now encased in that seasons.
Cold dark silent doom.
We look for the reasons.
They die in the gloom.
No longer the strength.
To beautifully illume.
Winter Rose
thejrpc 