A poem.

Simplicity As if to change my mind, to keep me here,
 that rose put on a show this year!
 She budded far too soon – in early May –
 and seemed to know I could or would not stay
 my hand, but needs must pick a small
 to sit beside me through my busy day.
 It drew my eyes – their every upward glance
 was caught by roses bending in a dance.
 The chorus flared their ruffled skirts at me,
 and, waiting to unfurl her frock, I'd see
 the première danseuse, a tapered bud
 of Renoir blush that whispered ardent blood.
 Romantic fallacy? Of course, I know.
 But still, that rose was putting on a show.
  – Jean Chapman Snow

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