The start was a rose,
It sprouted and grew,
So slowly though,
That no one else knew.

But one man noticed though,
When walking through a prairie,
With a basket in tow,
So carefully it was picked, for the one he would marry.

She accepted it with grace,
So lovely, so fair,
For it appeared to be lace,
So she treated it with care.

They were happily married,
One day on the plains,
Where their young souls were carried,
And their hearts forever in chains.

That’s where they discovered the rhythm of being,
So quiet, so new,
Where believing is not always seeing,
As they were lying down in the grass with the dew.

And one young evening,
The man’s son came,
And picked a single rose before leaving,
And gave it to his dame,

And so on and so on the tradition went,
With each fine rose as good as the first,
No single one was the slightest bit bent,
So each boy gave to their girl their hearts about to burst.

The start was a rose,
It sprouted and grew,
So slowly though,
That no one else knew.