The rose is beautiful to me
because it is like an unfurling Truth--
wrapped tightly as an infant's fist at first,
with blush and fragrance
only hinted at within its folds.
Then slowly unwrapping its tenderness,
shyly, to the light, the sun, to pollination,
and, yes, to peril.
But better to open to sun and light and peril
than to stay tightly furled and rot on the stem,
never to see the sun or feel it against one's petals.
Better to be eaten by aphids
than to never break through the hard winter soil.
Trust in the Spring, my beloved.
Open yourself to me.