The Rose, My Rose
I remembered her
as I looked out the window.
It was morning,
the sun was streaming in the door, the windows,
brightness, light, flowing mystically
through the enchanting green of the garden.
I remember her beautiful fresh rosy glow.
She was called Rose,
a second given name.
She grew up loving the colour red,
as bright and glowing as possible.
I remember her pointing out some of her childhood homes
all at one time on one property,
a flower farm.
She grew up among blooms,
and never lost her love for planting,
helping flowers to grow,
creating a beautiful cottage garden.
I remember her picking flowers
intent on choosing as much colour as possible
but not for herself
rather for others.
She picked before she went visiting
happy to be able to give a gift
straight from her heart and garden.
I remember her
but I never called her "Rose".
To me she was "mum."
My Sweet Rose -- John William Waterhouse