Single, Fresh Rose

She never had a rose before.
Many carnations, daffodils, chrysanthemums and weeds had come and gone,
But they never danced in her mind like the wonder of a single, fresh rose.

She was not greedy for a bouquet.
The awe would lose its power, its significance, its romance if overdone.

One day as she walked, she came upon it.
Freshly cut, petals in full blossom like pursed lips,
The steam green and straight as a line
Unspoiled and dethorned.
She lunged for it with both hands.
And as she grabbed it, it grabbed her,
Melding her soul with the essence of the flora.
As she drew it closer, the aura intensified.
And when it was near the tip of her nose, she inhaled the delicate scent.
Climatic, orgasmic.
It was everything she had imagined.

And then without warning jagged and crooked thorns shot out every surface of the stem,
Puncturing deep inside her hands.
The rose turned old and sour,
Its reddish glow, descending to a desolate auburn.
But still she stood their clenching it tighter, praying for it to come back,
Turning it upside down so that her blood would run down the steam and stain the petals red again.
The agony sent her into shock, and she dropped to the ground, rose still in her clutches.
She wouldn't let it go.
She couldn't let it go.

You see...
She never had a rose before.
Many carnations, daffodils, chrysanthemums and weeds had come and gone,
But they never danced in her mind like the wonder of a single, fresh rose.

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