Extended metaphor. Written: 1995

Love is like a sweet red rose, newly picked, with drops of dew drying on the petals. So beautiful. It is placed in a special place, a glass on the window sill, to admire its beauty and life. And after awhile, it starts to wilt, become brown and fall apart. But the plant it was picked from flourishes. And more beautiful red roses grow. More beautiful than the first, more eloquent and sophisticated. And they are left on the bush, for there they grow and survive, much longer, much more alive. The love there starts the same, but it grows, not dies. Each new day is better than the last. And the beauty of it lives on, long after the bitter winter frost comes and tries to kill it. Then spring comes, and the love from the plant survived the hardship and grows again, stronger and even more ravishing than ever known. Love is like a sweet red rose, left on the bush, to be admired and cared for in a free world, not to be contained.

Okay, can you tell I was always an optimist? This poem was about how love cannot be controlled or kept, because it will fall apart without the freedom of all involved. It was also about how even when one relationship falls apart, there are always more chances out there. Don't give up because life doesn't give up on you.