Roots of Roses

Her smile is worth its weight in (rose) gold.

She makes magic of scraps of hopes and dreams.

She is broken and bruised and hard to hold.

Beneath the bud, she is more than she seems.

I remember the seed she sprouted from,

every painstaking inch crawled towards the sun.

I remember the rain and the bees' hum,

how even then, she was nowhere near done.

Sometimes I hide behind her smile still,

fake it 'till I can pull her magic out,

use her to survive through the winter's chill,

then hold her through the summer and his drought.

To the reason I could ever break ground,

I am so grateful that you came around.