The rose came through the rain
better than I did.
The Storm fell suddenly,
heavy, wet, and grey.
The rose met the rain with pretty upturned face,
until the burden bowed her head
and she let one of her petals slip,
like a silk scarf
sighing to the ground.
She stood in full knowledge of her vulnerability,
lovely and patient,
absorbing nourishment from the downpour –
More than enduring the rain, she embraced it,
holding on to each cold drop with her petals and leaves
even as the Sun broke away the clouds…
The rose upheld the tears of Storm,
precious medals starring in the Light,
her head still bowed in quiet victory.
I ran in from the rain, bedraggled and cursing,
shutting myself in with my irritation,
shutting myself out from the glory of the rose.
© 1995 Christina Chase