The waterfall, thought as brave,
Viewed as unwearable, unstoppable, ablaze,
Secretly cowers and hopes to end its days
But continues to roar and never strays.
The brambles, viewed as fierce and tough,
Ignorant, guarded, as if they’ve had enough
And stay like that until they wither,
Pretending to be cool and tastelessly blither.
The garden, swaying with the wind
Seen as vulnerable, flimsy, weak, and thin
But only leans with this harsh blow
Because it has learned to go with the flow.
The ocean, scrubbing away at the sand,
Knows it could do something much more grand
But still tries to reach for the land
With a watery, frothy, desperate hand.
The dirt, seen as filthy and rotted,
With jewels and gems its depths are dotted
But still it chooses to follow the dark way
For it’s afraid to be seen with a happy day.
The pebble, smoothed down by the stream,
Seen as solitary, so hadn’t tried to join a team
And as it tried to let out a scream
Beneath the waters, it was held, serene.
But the rose, viewed as superficial behind thorns
Was expected to laugh with pity and scorn
At the ugly weeds as they were promptly picked
But instead it didn’t, thoughtful to contradict.
And until this very significant moment
It had been waiting for the bestowment
Of the gift it had long ago earned:
The petals it has, since young age, yearned.
And this is how the rose gained its beauty,
For performing a kind act, a necessity, a duty,
And now you look at the rose and think pretty
Instead of low, arrogant, and gritty.