Ode to Mother Rose

You think your beauty is fading; I say Why mourn borrowed flesh? Don’t dare make yourself small! A spent rose only appears withered To the blind-hearted, mean of spirit, Who are parched for love, like your petals. Me, I find you the most beautiful Amongst this bed of pretension, I see you; Your warm, powdery sweetness — it’s home, Nostalgic but never dull, Rooted but never clipped, And when southerly winds arrive, they’ll see All that was given, all that was plucked. You ask: where did that beauty go? Look around; look at us. Do you see it now? You believed yourself to be a rose When in truth you were the entire garden.

Kiruthika Rajeswaran