The Rose

I stood in a field of roses

breathing in the smell of the light pink flowers

Their scent wafted through my nose.

In the aroma, lied a pungent power.

I cringed but my feet walked on toward the odor.

They stopped only when they found its owner.

It slumped with grey petals touching a brown stem,

So thin it could snap and tumble to the ground.

Petals lied in a circle below, a dead diadem.

I stared, concerned for the sick I had found.

Day after day, I returned to this flower.

Day after day. I gave it all my willpower.

Today, this rose stands majestic in hue,

With white fading to pink and a stem emerald green.

New soil, new water, new you.

Your diadem restored, my May Queen.