The Rose

I remember when that rose bloomed on your calf

you were younger then,

we all were.

That rose stood bright and tall

just like you

a familiar sight

just like you.

It would move for no one

yet was open for everyone,

as you were.

The last few times I saw it,

it was wilting a bit

and losing color

slowly but surely

as you were.

I was hoping I could see it one more time,

its strong yet comforting composure.

I was hoping to see its bearer

and the proud bearer of its qualities

one more time.

But I wasn't able to see you,

grandma,

because the cold hand of death

took you away

early.

You and the rose live on

in the hearts

and on the calves

of your children and grandchildren.