A mother, far too young, holds her infant
Sitting next to a rose.
She admires its toughness, its resistance, its pose,
Yet she also sees the thorns.

The wind blows as she clutches her child,
Tossing her hair, from place to place.
The rose bows, but still won’t break.
And she knows she must be the rose.

Wind dies down
And she breathes a sigh
She relinquishes her strong grip,
Just like the rose stands straight
And lets thoughts or remorse die
Because she is no longer a child.

Her child though is unaware of the dangers,
The toils and snares,
Life can bring.
The child can see only the vibrant crimson
And reaches her tiny fingers towards the bitter sweet beauty.
But the mother holds her back, taking the thorns
The blood her punishment, but also her promise.
Because she knows she is no longer a child.
She must have the pose, the resistance, the toughness.
She must be a protector
For her innocent infant,
Who holds the mother’s childhood in her hand.