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Will cling to the stem, and wait overnight.
When morning dew settles, relaxed it will sway.
With fragrance, to ponder, and last the whole day.
You're sweet crimson colors, or yellow sublime.
Will unfold in beauty, alone on the vine.
Your passion endears me, consider me thine.
I'll tend you, caress you, and build you a shrine.
Wild Woodbines, and Primrose, surround your display.
In earth which is tilled, and rid of the clay.
Sloped hills, without rills, going down to a stream.
It is there, my sweet rose, I will build you a dream.
How wanton the pleasures, in life we must seek.
Ignoring the simple, like the flowing of a creek.
With shade from a willow, so majestically sleek.
A heaven on earth, God's gift to the meek.
My rose, my rose, my sweet Irish rose.
Endeared in song, and even in prose.
What pleasures surpass, the scent to the nose.
The simplest of pleasures, is knowing a rose.
Oh Mary awake, from your slumbering dream.
Come hither, and gather, with me by the stream.
A rose there awaits, the likes yet unseen.
Or cool in the shade, of the willow by the stream.
Watch petals unfold, there's nectar within.
The bees to the hive, its pollen will bring.
What sweetness, and fragrance, among other things.
For a simple a rose, a short life it will cling.
Chris Hanley, Oceanside, CA 92054
© 1997
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