Rose 
   by Sarah Elizabeth Hume


  Velvet crimson sweeping cold stone.
  Rooted deep in fading dust.

  What miraculous thing,
  a simple rose.
  Harvested in late summer gold.

  Strewn over a grave
  bathed in silver moonlight.

  Flaming gardens of looming perfume,
  kissing flesh on babies cheeks.
  Welcoming life
  into seas of rich burgundy.

  It is there and will always be.
  Candle of remembrance,
  seed of generations,
  trinket of love.

  Our stories held in tiny veins.
  The silence of hushed petals
  flowing in the wind.

  Born of humble, earthly grains,
  but captured in spirit of starry hosts.
 
  What miraculous thing,
  a simple rose.
  Marker of journeys past,
  and those yet to be.