Whatever It's

The rose is not a flower but a plant.
Described by most as red and velvet soft,
Is just as jealous as her prickly green,
That scrabs about my boots as I walk upon her.

It's flower in new-budded spring arrives,
Grand sepals mantled round her bowéd head,
Morning bees will rend her soft'ning lips
To taste the nectar she has stored within herself.

In the winter, she dies, brown to the ground,
Her leaves leave her, naked, and in the bitter winds of January,
Her skin grows tough and brittle,
Till all that was green is brown, and all that was brown is white and all that was white is gone and all that was red is imagined.