Folds of colour, soft and fragile,
Fringed with common green,
Atop a plain and woody stem,
Along its length, thorns plainly seen.
They will always crush it,
Who recklessly seek it to grasp.
For those impulsive, heedless ones,
Those thorns across palm will rasp.

Who seek to try and preserve,
So blind and unthinking are those.
Who have plucked and pressed,
A now rudely altered, lifeless rose.

Can we not yet comprehend,
This wondrous, fragrant show?
Is it really so hard to enjoy
While left on it’s bush to grow?
In border boldly expanding,
Riot of colour and enveloping scent.
On trellis adventurous climber,
Free and renewing as was meant.

Yet when we rip it from its setting,
Surprised are we at the shiver,
That now cold runs through us,
As we watch it slowly wither.

The rose, it does not deceive.
Oblivious the one while in this flower delves.
For hurting loss or thought betrayal,
We must look honestly inside ourselves.

Fergus Carty

"A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all other virtues".

Word Scramble Fun: Unscramble the following word. The first letter is given as a hint. The answer will be revealed tomorrow.


G _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Yesterday's word was: MANEUVER

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