The Last Rose of Summer

Ever notice how desolate a late fall garden can be?
Except for the beauty of a solitary Rose, you see!
She brightens all else, that seems so dead,
As her petals softly drop from her sagging head.

Winter is coming, the chill leaves no doubt.
Death is imminent, both within and without.
But the promise of the Rose is a miraculous thing,
You know that she proclaims the return of Spring.

So it is also, wherever life may stir,
North, South, East, or West, it matters not.
For a house is not a home without her,
Venus lasses all know this, but Mars lads forgot!

It’s just a matter of time, cycle, and faith,
All the poets know it, so they’ve written and saith.
The Rose is a symbol , with her gentle velvety touch,
She promises unending Love and Endurance, and such.

When she was younger she was an American Beauty,
But time’s toll has aged her, done its duty.
Her once tiny thorns warned, be gentle and caring,
Now thick branches and spire-like spikes deter the unwary.

Be careful as you prune, especially in June,
Yes gloves would be the ticket.
For, as she replenishes her boons by the light of the moon,
Don’t ever trip and fall in her thicket.

As gentile as is the touch of her petal,
The Rose signifies strength, and a will likened to metal.
She’s there all the time, all occasions, happy or sad,
At both Weddings and Wakes, she helps us feel glad.

Yes, the Last Rose of Summer, an omen, portends,
She’ll be here for each of us, unto our very ends.
She, the Nucleus, Sister, Friend, and Mother,
None else so Beauteous, no other,
so saith her Loving Brother!