#poetry #poem #children #rose #flower

The Rose
She went toward the village green dancing
the jigs of May. When she espied laid on
the verge, basking bright in a fairy ring,
the silver pin, the one she gave to John

in troth. 'How come you there?' the maiden asked.
Bending down to pick it up, her finger
caught the point so sharp; her blood unmasked
magic. The wise girl chose not linger

dropped the pin upon the grass. Full speed
she ran along the lane, a blur of skirt
and bobbing curls. The drop of blood now freed,
grew into a little seed. From that petty hurt

finger, pricked, in summer flowers a rose
warm as May, bright as June, red as fire glows.


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