PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The red rose glows in the moonlight.

I long to touch it,

to smell its entoxicating fragrance.



The blossom seems so delicate.

What if I touch it and it

withers in my hand?



Oh, but it draws me nearer.

My fingers brush the petals,

I bend to inhale its elegance.



The bud is even more fragile up close.

For I can see every detail,

every vein.



I want to pick the flower.

So that it will always be with me.



I reach towards the stem.

The bud sways away from my fingers,

as if caught by an invisible wind.



I try again and the blossom starts to wither,

as if to say leave me here.

I realize the flower must be left alone.



Maybe when winter draws near,

the flower will realize

it wishes to be picked.