The Pink Rose

I went to the place she lived

Qute sometime ago

To prepare for her a garden of roses

All in a neat little row.

I took my shovel and began

To work the dirt and rock mound

And after a long afternoon

I had the roses in the ground

I planted red, yellow, white

And the pink she liked the best

The hardest rose to grow

More difficult than the rest.

I went to the place she lived

Two years ago this May

To check on the roses

And wish her "Happy Mother's Day."

The bushes had gown about 3 foot

Quite delicate still

They had not yet produced thorns

But the roses had begun to fill.

I went to the cemetary

During an unusual October snow

To check the garden of roses

I had planted years ago.

I wanted to make sure the roses

Could survive the early winter's bite

But I must have been snowblind

When I arrived at the garden site.

Atop the soft powder show

The bushes stood tall and proud

All blossomed in one color

Cascading into an elegant pink shroud.

A labyrinth of thorny vines

Across the granite stone grows

Hiding most of her name

Revealing only, "My One Rose."

©2001 by Teresa Sherrod, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED