The Florist

Has anyone told the story of the rose?

The ins and outs of why it grows? 

How did it get red?  Was it from embarrassment? 

From what a lily said one day? 

And the scent—that scent. that has inspired 

A million poems and songs 

And breathed with a thousand romances 

From beginning to end—why?   

I stopped to smell a rose. 

Reaching out to pull it close, 

My finger grazed a thorn. 

I recoiled quick with the pain of a prick 

And cursed the redness seeping 

From my index finger.    

Why the thorn, 

Like a cat’s claw in fear? 

Had a hart consumed one once? 

And the rose, vowing never to let happen again,

Taken up the sword?   

I don’t know.  I guess nobody really knows.   

Has anyone told the story of a rose?

I guess it’s because nobody really knows.