It was a rare spring day, one that had no flaws; the air was fresh and exhilarating. Nature’s beauty was abundant on every side. Slipping away from the crowd at my mother-in-law’s country home, my five-year-old daughter and I went exploring.

It was a day for poets. The sun sparkled on the newborn leaves, creating a glitter like diamonds against the branches, which were stirred by the gentle breezes.

“Sweetheart”, I said to Cindy. “There are many poems around today just waiting for someone to put them into words.”

“Mama, could you write me a poem?” she asked.

“Maybe” I said.

The beauty of it all flowed through my mind like new wine. Cindy danced along reminding me of a new spring colt, not yet separated from her mother in the spring pasture. The bluebirds sang and the robins darted about in the pecan trees overhead.

The wisteria was the same blue as the sky. The bees were frantically trying to choose between its blossoms and those of the fresh clover.

Across the yard, my senses detected another fragrance. Upon investigation, I found a scrawny rose bush, scarred with age, but filled with lovely buds. Memory recalled many things about this old fashioned rose that had survived for many years with little attention.

This bush had produced roses to honor many occasions in our lives. My mother-in-law had a love for beautiful things. When a new grandbaby arrived or someone was sick, she was soon there. If it was during the blooming season, she always had roses from this bush neatly arranged in a jelly glass or a mason jar; a visible token of her love and concern. Tears filled my eyes as I recalled the times these roses had graced my bedside. Roses will forever remind me of new babies and my mother-in-law’s love.

Our town is known as the "City of Roses." Roses bloom along our roads, city streets and in private yards from early spring till frost. Ordinarily, roses in their perfection are something I take for granted. To me, this scrawny old rose bush will always be the Queen of the Show.

“The rose is a symbol of the best and most beautiful in people,” I said to Cindy. “Grandmother has used the roses from this bush to express the love and the beauty she has within.”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it” she said, not comprehending what I was trying to say.

The spring day had taken on new meaning for me as I found values in the lovely scene. There was a poem here. It takes a person in the poem to add real meaning to even nature’s loveliness.

“God makes the lovely roses,” I said to Cindy, “but yet, it takes man to use and add symbolism to its deeper meaning. It takes the creative forces of man and God to produce value. As long as the rose stayed on the bush where it had been created, it had beauty and nothing else. When the loving hand of your grandmother picked it, with the idea of conveying a message to someone else, it took on valuable attributes.”

Cindy looked at me quizzically and said, “Does that mean that Grandma brought you a rose because she loved you?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” I said. Taking Cindy’s hand, we walked on in search of simpler things.

© Ivie Bozeman

The Poem: Granny's Rose