Withering

A rose. Think of it.

How like a rose we are.

Beginning as seed, gently, a bud.

How we open,

slowly,

never seeing our petals born;

never guessing when, at last,

the last

will fall.

And when we wither,

wrinkle and darling grey:

the beautiful rose that lived.

Think of it.

How easily we forget who we are.

Devine and growing.

Think of it.

Think of how lovely.