There was a tumble weed that rolled;
Shaped over the years by fragments collected,
by wind and squall directed.
Until one Fall morning by sovereignty it landed,
upon a rose…
This rose was not quite at full blossom,
and had not encountered many storms,
but drank from life’s moisture,
nearly perfect in mind and form…
The rose took a liking to this tumbled acquaintance,
as did the weed to the innocent rose.
Unlikely companions, they journeyed in sequence
wherever life took them and the unknown flowed.
With the tumbler protecting the rose by his side,
they lived life’s many pleasures,
happy, with an occasional cry…
Years had passed and the rose was at full blossom.
The weed was torn and becoming unraveled.
Aware of his threadbare and its painful jab
she distanced herself from his frequent stab…
With each tempest the distance grew farther
until weed and flower were standing alone...
A greater blizzard roared,
like none they’d ever known.
The weed was caught off guard, tumbling down;
Without control of his direction, at top speed,
to his Maker, he did plead.
He could see her as he approached;
Her beauty overtaken by fear and the unthinkable…
Her tumbler had become a danger,
no longer to behold.
Wishing his presence was not so painful,
but he could see his velocity was fatal.
A strong gust blew him uncontrollably nearer,
and with one blow,
he crushed the rose…
He longed for the storm and wind to subside
so he could process the dreadful pain inside.
The shock of what he had done,
left him weary of life, questioning his love.
The shock of what he had done,
left him weary of life, questioning his love.
“Oh, to see her again in full bloom…”
Now in memory only,
till his days of tumbling, fumbling,
...are through.
...are through.
~2010 Vaughn Wood
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