Poetry

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I gaze upon the rose bush; beauty beyond compare
I enjoy its sweet aroma that lingers in the air

I admire the vivid colors appearing on its blooms
I hold a high respect for thorns, you know why, I presume

Although each part is special, the one held close by me
Is the ugly, gnarled, and twisted part, the part I cannot see

Buried deep within the darkness, never warming in the sun
The roots hold up God’s masterpiece-their work is never done

Unlike the ever changing rose whose blossoms come and go
The roots hold fast with all they have and make the branches grow

Beauty is illusive; it abandons in the end
For holding firm to shaky ground on roots I will depend

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