This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Oswego chapter.
Bud
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.