A friend wrote a poem in a new blog, and then wondered about her poetic ability. This sonnet is in response (and is also on the comment page to her poem).

To a Rose At Last Blossoming

Roses don’t blossom
quickly, like the daffodil, tulip,
or dandilion,
only to fade just as quickly away.

Instead, they rise from a bushes,
born years before.
The older the rosebush,
the sweeter and longer lasting the blossom.

People glance at rosebushes in winter,
comment on their plainness;
their brown sticks protruding through dead mulch;
their ugliness, deadness, and thorns.

But when rose blossoms at last spread their color’d fragrance,
Humankind is blessed, touched and inspired by true beauty.