The Rose

I recall once upon a time a long time ago there came a perfect white snowfall. It was early in the spring and one of my rose bushes had already grown out and shared with the light of the world, a single red rose.

As the snow was falling early in the day, the rose held it’s petals tight, but by the next morning they were scattered on the ground like bright red drops of blood on the pure white carpet of ice. The first rose of spring had died.

But a week later as the sun began to shine warm upon the ground again, another tendril sprouted out of the rose bush. Once again the rose bloomed and this time the flower was even prettier, brighter and stronger than before. And the snowfall was forgotten.

Because it wasn’t the beauty of bloom which was the most important, because that beauty is temporary.

It’s the strength of the roots, and the care, love and compassion of the gardener which stands the test of time against the elements.

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