PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

One rose grown in a field,

Dreaming of tomorrow’s rain.

One rose in hundreds of flowers

Waiting for one of the same.



Another rose grows in a field,

Dreaming the same dream.

Yet, these matching two roses

Will never drink the same stream.



Deep roots held the first flower

Tightly to the earth below.

But, the soil was her captor,

It no longer helped her grow.



The other rose kept dreaming.

Dreaming of his perfect match.

A life of being dos rosa,

Growing as two, in a patch.



He asked the bird if she would carry

Him, far to another field.

As the great Hawk seized hold of the rose’s stem

His roots began to yield.



The hawk soared high, above the clouds,

Far above the land.

Then as he noticed the roses teary smile

She loosened the grip of her mighty hand.



The rose tumbled, and fell through puffy, white clouds

-Fell to his own field.

Looking up he saw a bright, red sun.

No! A rose was this illuminating shield!



The first rose questioned from where he came.

“The other side of this land.

“I was delivered here, a gift from Hawk.

“I was placed here by her own hand!”



Then she smiled, for then she knew her dream

Certainly had been heard.

Obviously fate had been bestowed upon her

By this masterful bird.



She had always dreamed of another to share

This place where she grows, and dreams.

Now she gazed at this grateful one

Who might share these hopes and dreams.



“I thank you, sweet rose, to block the sun

“While I give the earth my roots.

“Without your aid I’d dry right up

“And gone would be my roots.”



But, she had begun to think of rain

And the soil she would share.

Perhaps this gesture would prove in vain

To help this rose from the air.



Her dream had been simple -to find a mate,

A companion, one like her.

But, this one came from across the field,

From different dirt, a foreigner.



She let the sun fall upon his limb.

Yet, for him, rain she prayed

To help him keep from drying-up

And to let him be washed away.



She let the rain drip from her petals

Onto his drying stem.

But as he thanked her, he cried,

“Why couldn’t I be him?”



The gift of water had fallen for days

Until a mighty flood

Floated and carried a dry twig away

In a river of grass, and mud.



One rose growing in a field,

Dreaming of tomorrow’s rain.

One rose crying in a field,

Waiting for one of the same.



by Michael J. Hill