Here I sit admired, yet never acquired. Maybe it is my position on the vine or my outward flaws that I have no looking glass to see. Nevertheless I sit here day in and day out. To live forever. I long to be plucked and carried off to be added to a bouquet or arrangement like to ones I see on the pages of the books left by my admirers. I review them as the wind, my kind friend, turns them for me. Yearly I meet the offspring of friends that been plucked away. They are more beautiful than those that have come before them. Even when they desire to stay, complaining that they want to be immortal like me, they are still plucked as so many before them.
I am here from the dew-filled mornings in spring to the icy cold nights of autumn. In winter when I am naked and lifeless I sleep. So as the dew turns to ice I am freed by slumber from the bitter cold and the angry winds that come from the north, nothing like my friend the southern breeze.
I dream of a life like that of a normal rose. Where I can awake in spring and bloom by summer to be picked by the humans and taken to a lovely home. To taste the high of the acid that makes my petals glow, surrounded by noise, laughter and conversations, then to die peacefully there. How comforting to wither gracefully surrounded by friends, as we hold each other close in our final moment. Returning to the earth to become a part of another journey, seed another life with my dust.
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