A sunshine rose cut
somewhere in the tropics,
where the summer air thrums
omnipresent.
Its buttery petals
preserved and cured
to gift amidst our northern
October shade.
I place the shining flower
in a makeshift bottle vase
to admire every morning as
withered leaves skitter away.
In December, another hue
joins the brilliant bloom,
this one white as snowfall,
swan wings, fresh pearls,
our moon.
Their vibracious beauty is
striking to the eye,
but should the roses strike
so beautifully to
the informed mind?
With production so unethical
and environmentally condemnable,
can they still be likened to
such angelic tangibles?
Gifted with love and
intentions so pure,
is it such a crime to admire
their secretive furls?
Tended by
worn hands
but presented
in yours.
Are the roses
beautiful?
pm poetry 