They are the only ones who amuse me. I am the only one who cares for them. Twelve Delicate Roses with delicate petals and pokey thorns like mine. Twelve who are propped up in a vase to show off their beauty. Twelve waiting in its fridge for someone to pick them. From our kitchen, we can see them, but the kids don’t appreciate them. 
Their beauty is hidden. They send their scent throughout our home. They wilt and they sprout and grab the earth between their prickly thorns and luscious petals with violent texture and never quit their fight. This is how they survive.

Let one forget his reason for being, they’d all wilt like daisies without water, each with their petal around the others. Droop, droop, droop they say when I sleep. The amuse. 

When I am too sad and too lonely to enlighten others, when I am a little speck against so many orchards, this is when I see the flowers. When there is nothing left to looking forward too. Twelve who remain strong in the case.Twelve who grow and don’t forget to bloom. Twelve whose only reason is to be delicate and to brighten my day.