THE ROSE
(For The Quill)
Sitting alone in the cool of the evening
Recalling his highs and regretting his lows
Sifting through dreams for a hint of contentment
He samples the breeze for the scent of a rose
Living his life on a vertical pathway
Struggling and scraping from open to close
Rising and falling as fate shifts his burdens
He seldom finds time to consider the rose
Beauty is always to each a great treasure
We're lost in the wonders that nature bestows
God's greatest gift is his love for his children
This love and this beauty are embodied in the rose
Deep in the forest or high in the mountains
On golden plains where the deep river flows
All behold beauty and swoon in its glory
But only a poet would die for a rose
Martyrs abound so the holy book tells us
Willing to die for the faith that they chose
Spilling their blood for the love of their savior
But only a poet would die for a rose
Hail the great heroes brave champions of freedom
Waging their wars evil men to depose
Fighting the good fight and falling in battle
But only a poet would die for a rose
Call him insane or just too sentimental
This carver of rhyme this engraver of prose
He travels a line precious few can envision
No one understands his great love for the rose
So pause to read slowly and savor each passage
On each word he labors his life's blood he flows
His heart breaks with joy and he soars in sheer wonder
He knows as a poet he would die for a rose
Copyright © Brad Evans 2000