By: James G. Piatt

Oh, gentle white rose quietly enduring the
unhurried day, counting the closing minutes
of the fading Magenta sun as you emit
sugary aromas from buds so sweet, worry
not; for soon the journey to the horizon’s
closing stages will be over.

Oh anxious people whose quest is only for
golden metallic things, too many of you pine
away with thoughts of tomorrow while failing
to enjoy today’s heavenly garland of gentle
hours, and pining for new things when old
things are so beautiful.

We walk from the balmy breeze into the icy
gale far too soon. By forgetting the aroma of
the white rose, we dig earthen graves while
we are yet children. Future things for which
we fervently strive, can turn to gray ashes
while our soul is still in its infancy:

Continually enjoy the fragrance of each
white rose along life’s way before the sun
dips into the stone gray horizon, and you are
buried under a cement tomb.