Within every field is a rose
Soft petals of blood red
Bound to earth, water, sky
Bound to the wilds and land
Alone it will stand

Yet sometimes a wind does blow
Harsh, bitter, hot, cold
Tossing everything about
Tearing everything from their place
Alone it will this storm now face

In the battered wind and cold
Its roots torn but there
Its thorn piercing sharp
Never to be caught unawares
It pierces all who get near

A gentle voice with a rough sound
Echoes within the rose's sorrow mind
A gentle hand reaches forth to hold
The rose tossed to and fro
To replant the rose in the wilds it knows.

The gentle voice with a rough sound
Brings joy and comfort to the flower
There is such wonder and grace
Such safety, security, and freedom
The rose is home and welcomed.


Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 9th of Midsummer, in the year 499 MA.