A Rose is but a Rose

(a tribute to W. Shakespeare)

by

Russell Bittner

I notice how my roses rush to bloom

      (much like my grapes, now primed for wine and fun);

yet roses feel their petals steeped in gloom

      once autumn drops a dimmer on the sun.

My roses sense a turning of the earth

      away from what illumines summer skies.

A rose is but a rose upon her birth,

      yet regal to the root until she dies—

though we are not.  Instead, and in the act

      of seeking to bedazzle with a blush,

we’re forced to face one incidental fact:

      our dotage leaves us barely fit to flush.

My roses muse that such a pun impedes

      that rush of spring recumbent in her seeds. 

Gather 'round the water-cooler

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Russell