The young woman had a fondness for flowers.
“He loves me, He loves me not.”
The pedals fell like this stanza’s lines.
She was referring to God.
“He loves me, He loves me not,” the words slipped from her lips.
She stopped.
The roses were still alive.
The corners of her mouth perked up.
“He loves me!”
The young woman was so happy.
She saw a garden of rose bushes.
To had been not quite dead yet was her only hope.
Was it green there or would it all be dry & brown?
Was magic there or was she just trying to cope?
It was winter, and she had to be beauty’s brownnoser.
So the young woman moved along with her Spirit as her co-adventurer.
She looked at the rose bushes like she was just browsing.
She admired the thorns and the light green coatings.
She noticed it was all still alive and not getting browner!
The spring was coming the spring was coming!
The roses were no longer a downer.
The day she’d flutter around like butterflies was incoming.
The darkness wouldn’t drown her.
That God loved her was insisted.
The garden showed the young woman her one & only hero.
The month before spring, the roses got ready instantly.
In 37 days exactly, the spring will be here.
The roses opened up to the Sun and you could hear the symphonies.
The young woman thought it was so beautifully sweet.
At night, she courageously shined like the Sun and kissed the roses intimately.

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