A rose on a thistle
swings in the wind.
Beckons every other
with salutation and love.
Looked upon as the Queen
the crimson rose blooms
the interwoven petals
seem delicate and tender.
She dances with joy,
I stay apprehensive.
Will she injure herself?
brushing against the stinging claws.
I gaze at her with empathy
exclaim, “Oh, you wonderful
why do you sit on nettles?”
She grins.
Meenas Poems 