I need to write a verse about a rose,
my pen is slow despite its brush of ink.
Perhaps I could begin with words in prose,
with paper, pen and strokes of softened pink.

Between the bud and bloom rebirth is near,
my ink relents the flow is easy now.
It comes on wings of owls that blink a tear,
when sun bestows a kiss where thorns endow.

My quill has tales about the rose to tell,
of breath and love bouquets in curves of time
with leaves that twine beside the heatherís bell,
when mischief winds caress and petals chime.

These flowers weave the colors midst their folds,
the rose becomes the bond that ever holds.

An English Sonnet

© By Marilyn Terwilleger (mterwilleger@bresnan.net)

TomWYO (tomWYO@aol.com) grows roses and he sent this photograph.






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Good Morning

Tinges of Fall in the Air (several authors)

That Old Rusted Bucket

I Wonder Sometimes

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