In a nearby field, there lives a rose, as wild

a creature as an unbridled stallion,

an old friend of mine.

Pale pink blush flits upon her cheeks,

 

though she rarely reveals them to me.

For she is a circumspect creature,

not a wallflower, but

a shy young child hiding

 

from a tall, well-dressed guest

behind her mother's leg.

She is as different from her ostentatious

cousins that line the sidewalks downtown,

 

seductive pools of forest green for eyes,

gaudy lips painted cherry red, as the hawk

from the field mouse. Her singularity leaves

her straining in the wind, searching

 

for companionship, a stain of color

on the bland green blanket of her field.

The sun whispers for her to open her petals,

bask in the warmth of his noble gaze,

 

and she does, for a time.

Yet on cloudy days, she still bows

her head beneath an overhanging bush

and contents herself with watching

 

the scurrying ants. In the patterns they leave

in the dust she finds written

fantastic stories of a microscopic world

to which she can escape.