Winter is upon the land
And yet outside my window,
Shielded by some unseen hand,
One rose continues to grow.

Single bud encased in green
That hides its wine-dark crimson.
Summer beauty might be seen
So late against all reason.

Barren branches all around,
Grass laid flat by heavy dew.
Perfect bloom can now be found,
The best kept back just for you.

Until at last nature calls
Time; it’s heard without a sound.
One by one each petal falls
To wither upon the ground.