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.