A morning rose, through night, so steeped in dew
Has with a gentle kiss awoken me,
And with a breathless touch of vine, right through
My pale white skin, full stained a deep ruby.
A rich and bleeding red like maple leaves
Upon retreat of summer into fall,
Such naked burgundy like scraped babe’s knees
Which scamper home to comfort ‘pon Ma’s call.
Although, this rose of which I write e’er morn
Has splendor so much more than single hue,
For ‘twas this Rose, to water, I was born,
In hopes that thee may see its paintings, too.
As from my skin, through fingertips and pen
Like stream through glen, flows poems, again, again.