I catch the essence,
of the moment,
aroma and vibrance,
in the morning sun;
a rose before it blossoms.
Then I stay there and linger,
as the memory bursts forth;
and the story unfolds,
in the midday light.
I grasp its true purpose,
as the flower unfolds.
But I stay too long,
and it dries to brown,
as afternoon comes,
and the sun wanes,
blocked by the shadows,
of the long tall trees.
My hope begins to fade,
the little brown shell,
will be left all alone,
as darkness comes.
But, then I’m amazed to see,
it’s been captured by the eye,
of a feathered red stranger;
and before the shell,
can fade any longer,
down from its perch,
in the branches above,
the crimson spirit alights;
and tenderly grabs hold,
of the little brown shell;
with the rose in its beak,
it flies once round my head,
then tipping one wing,
it disappears into the sky,
with shell in its grasp.