The Grasshopper in the Rose
By Dave
I hopped into a rose at dawn,
enchanted by her hue,
the kind of red that poets praise
and liars, they call “true.”
She whispered, “Mind the thorns, my dear,”
with half a sigh, half smile;
I swore my heart was armor-proof—
it lasted but a while.
I spoke of moonlit meadows,
of songs the crickets know,
she spoke of fleeting beauty,
and how blossoms come and go.
We danced a minute, maybe two,
before the sunlight grew.
She wilted into memory—
as all red roses do.
Now every time I see one bloom,
I bow, but never close,
for love’s a lovely landing spot,
but cruel on tender toes.