Nature has taken its circle again,
Once again, renewing what was once lost.
Dying for only one forth the year,
Resigned under the white blanket of frost.

Yet again, like always,
the world is renewed with a skim of green
And colors rising from the sleeping spring,
To exhibit its beauty to the world and be seen.

And under this pile of beaut,
A rose rises from the wet brown mud.
Showing its red face to the suns yellow out look,
Developing from the once young bud.

It stands tall and proud,
Like all these other flowers should be.
Intimidating to other lawns,
Seeming as though its looking at thee.

But time takes it toll, working with nature.
In a cycle that can not be stopped.
linking these two phenomenons together
In this rhythmic circle these two are locked.

This flower, who was once young and "loud",
Has taken the summer and most of spring
It has made its roots, and scattered its children,
To stand tall like it itself, and joy to bring

But I shall remember that rose and the Awe it brought.
That season that wiped away the woes.
And all that’s left is the brown leaves,
And the red withered Rose.
 
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