Poetry
by Phil Brown
THE ROSE IS
The rose is a burgundy blush,
A backyard surprise, plush
Velvet, a little sacred heart.
The rose is a bit of bleeding air,
A goblet of petals, a fair
Cluster of regal leaves, slightly apart.
The rose is a burst of red wine
In space, a pulse, a sublime
Gathering of molecules on a stick.
The rose is a solitary sign of love,
Threatened by thorns, riding above
A bed of dirt: something to pick.
by Phil Brown
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