Under the new crescent moon
and mid summer sun,
the rose petals are wide,
unraveled.
They even curl inside out,
and slightly backbend
around their spiny stem,
giving their everything.
Petals,
like limbs,
danced open
in their yielding,
to our star's light,
and heat.
But soon,
in their disheveled state,
they will fall,
fully spent.
It's strange.
I don't yearn for their demise,
even though
it's as much a part of life,
as their initial blossoming.
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