The bloom of youth in the rain washed rose is a joy for eyes to see
yet what lies underneath this glow is invisible to you and me.
Blind are we for a fresh budding rose is already fading, dying
time is cruel the blossom will wilt, the light will wither away,
one day bursting with life, then naught but a thorny stalk.
And in the wake of perfumed petals drifting on the heavy air
all that remains and is unseen is their decaying essence.
Author’s Note:This photo is one of mine.
