"Bud" -- A Poem


A flower to be

if it chose to bloom

in the hands of the cold.


It could,

only with certain care

as spring showed its face,

if winter didn’t come too soon.


That was as he saw her.

She should have been nothing,

but he saw her in the snow

and knew she would become something.


“Hey bud,” he would say.

Something so simple, yet

it held so much power.


He cared as no one did

and would defend her

from any thorn.

Allowing her to unravel,

her petals blushing, opening,

safe in his sunlight.


Bud became her name,

not simply what they said

and called one another,

but an unspoken bond,

a rose bud painted red.


In memory of M.F.