Too often the rose misses her own bloom.
The audience of bees becomes the sole focus. Caught in a deluge, she's found blind to the ambrosia that are her own accomplishments. Her petals falling, concentric in the cumbersome spiral that mazes its way from sepal to pistil.
The rose should never forget; she is the art, the wilds, the catalyst that begets growth. Without her bees would just buzz, lost.
This wonderful post was written by my son, Gordon. Great is he who can express his thoughts clearly, and comfort someone with kind words.