Saturday, 9 May 2020


The rose. That rose. The very notion that perfection could exist within one singular, solitary, moment in time. We’ve heard sonnets sung about the rose. A thousand rhymes and yet, we’ve forgotten the most precious rose of all.

Every single rose starts from the ground, growing, imagining, developing towards the given sunshine from the world. Without sunshine, without water, the rose can never, ever flourish. It withers, it grows old before its time, then passes away with the whispering thoughts forgotten within the wind.

The bud union, just above the stable, stoic, earth base, forms the strong platform from which to move into the world. The roots, already created, have taken form allowing the sprinkling showers to provide life, understanding and more. The cycle begins. It starts. It grows with time itself.

Each step of the process, critical. Each moment of time, essential. The leaflets start to appear upon the petiole, the stem starting to form, as the leaves collect the bright sunshine required to grow. The bond between sunshine, the sustenance, becoming closer than before. The Rose reaches upward, asking for more time, for understanding, to become everything that could possibly be.

One by one, over the given time, the leaflets may drop away, shaded by new leaflets, nothing more asked of them other than to release their burden upon reaching the sunshine. The act of love, the freely given sacrifice, knowingly accepted and undertaken.

The rose continues to reach, with prickles forming to fend away undesirables, as well as to clamber upon other flowers. It is not a want, but a need for sunshine, that pushes the rose to undertake such acts. The survival, the instinct, to produce and survive is bestowed upon all living things. The rose, the beautiful rose, should never be looked upon in any way other than beauty. It is doing, as intended.

The days move, they escape, as the stem appears to make the final break into the world. The rose is ready, willing, its very essence wishing itself to appear. The petals form, bunched together, until the safety surrounding them allows freedom to become their world. They bloom, they prosper, exposing their beauty to all that look upon them, asking for nothing but kindness, understanding and warmth. There will always be, until the end of time, insecurity within beauty.

As the moments expand, with the pistils asking for assistance, the ovaries within the peduncle await their given moment. The time may come, the moment may pass, with the fate of all notions hanging in the balance. Maybe, just maybe, this rose will find that moment to prosper, to bear fruit. The cycle of life simply being what it was always meant to be. Be it cruel, majestic, towering or the smallest moment imaginable. What is meant, will be.

Upon a day, within a spoken verse, the time may arrive for all things to wither, to slowly age, no matter the circumstance or dealings of life. The lessons, the learned responses, the drama and evocative memories mean as much as they do, as we all still follow a prescribed path. I am, me, this person writing this, aware of such events taking place every single second of the day. I will never be a rose. I cannot be a rose. I have not the thorns, the struggle, the weight of having to create petals or even roots to survive in the world.

I am a man. I am what will be and what was. I may wither, I will also die, but I’m the one that’s supposed to nurture, to hold, to guide and to assist such a rose. The flowers of life may grow on their own, even learn to stand above the tallest group of flowers, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of what I am, or if I’m needed. I’m aware of what I’m supposed to do and what I’ve been made for. As a man, I’m here to protect that rose, even if it means being cut over and over again by the wildest moments, as well as the sharpest prickles, as that’s growth. That’s understanding.  It’s life, as well as being beside someone each and every single one of their days, through whatever storm threatens our roots together.

If I’m not supporting you, then I’m not needed. If I’m putting you down, then that’s what should happen to me. If I’m not bleeding when you feel pain, then my hand should not hold yours. If I’m not watering your ideals and providing sunshine to your petals, then surely the shade of my life would eventually destroy you.

Maybe we’re often so caught up in our own issues, that we forget that this is life. Our lives. We all have our purpose. We’re not all meant to be flowers, as there are always many ways to blossom within a field of solitary green. You are the rose, you’re beautiful, you’re an impressive work of nature and I, just me, will always be your man and know what that means.

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