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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2199019
Someone keeps leaving a rose on my porch.
'Twas a rose on my porch and I did not know why;
it was yellow and bright and appealed to my eye.
And this was not a single occurrence, you see;
Every morn there’s a bright yellow rose left for me.

A green stem is a part of this mystery gift;
I am scratching my head yet it does provide lift.
And the stems are so smooth—there’s no sign of a thorn;
safe to pick up my rose when I get it each morn.

It’s the Florist of Nature who’s gifting me so;
and the bright yellow rose seems to me apropos.
It’s the color of friendship and warm like the sun;
in a vase it is saved since I cherish each one.

To the florist I say I appreciate much
your selection of yellow rose—it’s a nice touch.
And I’m humbled beyond what I’m able to say
that I’m getting a bright yellow rose every day.

In the back little room there’s a vase that is full;
(to find favor with Nature I seem to have pull.)
In another small room a bouquet has begun;
in the midst of these roses I am feeling young.

I am nature-attentive and hip to the scene
with the reddish-orange sunsets and lush fields of green.
Yet it seems that the Florist has more to provide;
it awes me beyond measure and warms me inside.

24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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