A rose blooms in my backyard. It is white, it is pure and and its corners have started to wilt. Amidst the weeds and the grass- where it is watered regularly, for it is the only plant that needs quenching- it grew from a graft. I won’t say it is tender, because it is not. It has thorns for protection and the sepals are papery. Even the petals are rusty and rough.

It is naive. It blooms every year. It knows it will have no care, it knows it will be lonely, but it still trusts and hopes that maybe this year there will be another rose on another graft, and more water in the soil. Maybe the weeds won’t eat at it, maybe it will last a day longer, maybe a bee will need the nectar it creates. But there is no bee and there will be none. The rose will bow with the burden of the nectar and one fine day it will fall to the soil and mix in it.

It is selfless. It does not matter if it didn’t get what it deserved, it gives to the soil what she needs. It lingers and rots and waits for more than its life’s worth, until it is a part of the clay itself.

It is wise. It knows the weeds will grow off of it. But it also knows that its martyrdom will aid its presence in the next rose that takes its place, be it only an iota.

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