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The Rose

In a vase of pleasant proportions, stands a single red rose.
A rose untranslated making it's silent demand on my thoughts.

 

It's form and color delight the eye,
it's fragrance familiar and reminiscent of other days and other roses.

 

An altogether lovely rose which does not say "I love you" or "I'm sorry"
or "You are extraordinary".

 

A rose which clearly stands in beauty and justifies it's being in the senses
of the observer.

 

How needless is translation.

How complex is acceptance.

How simple is the rose.

 

 

 

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