The Rose Poem by Brenda Whiteside

(refelections on a father's early death)

I placed a rose upon his breast
He lay in sleep as cold as stone
Too soon the grave his bones would wrest
I could not let him go alone

His tender hands this lovely flower
Had nurtured long through drought and flood
When sorrow bade it's beauty cower
The riven stem grief's storm withstood

The petals were of velvet gold
They seemed more real now he was gone
Like him forbidden to grow old
Defiant in their deathless love

This token of unfinished love
Now waits with him in sweet repose
While to his garden I remove
It is for me to tend the rose