A Rose Vine
Vines everywhere, up the walls and in the yard,
Mine are somewhere, and all is seen in awe,
For the blooms so rare and red, blue, and white,
Pink, purple, and orange,
Their vines so long with thorns, I fear I might catch one,
But so beautiful and filled with sorrow,
These roses are meant for tomorrow,
For someday a man will deliver one to his lover,
Only to try and find a decent cover,
I stare at the climbing roses,
For one in particular,
A rose vine,
So sharp and pretty, I think I might pick it,
I walk to it and examine,
The icy white petals of my rose to be,
And find it snowy, ss soft as down,
I touch it and frown like a sad clown,
It is to pretty to pick,
It must be savored and lasting,
For it not be so fasting,
So I leave a rose vine behind,
So sad but satisfied, with a different blue rose,
But it will not replace the white vine,
For it was so beautiful, fit for a princess,
For a memory it is so priceless,
For a rose vine,
Such as that one in the garden of roses,
Has always been there for eternity,
It's icy, snowy petals so fine,
No one will ever pick its life line,
For a rose vine,
Shall always last, for its carrier is caring and devine
