barbara ann smith

The Gift of Life

I pick a white rose;
full of dew drops,
fragrances of mountain breeze.

I place it in a small clear vase,
set it in my windowsill,
petals of fine silk.

I return later in the day;
no energy, petals curled,
the dead rose
awakens my fleeting life.
Our bodies wither and age,
the lively plant is precious.