I always find time
To stop and smell the roses
A rose is so personal
You feel like it's speaking to you
I wonder if they dream of butterflies
Or other roses
Do they whisper amongst themselves?
How can they ever connect with one another
When each one is perfectly lonely
Rooted in the earth, dying to open
Hiding its secrets under so many lids
Guarding them with thorns
Emily Dickinson captured it best
This feeling of longing without expectation
The revery alone will do
When bees are few
A rose is the opposite of an onion
Roses smell sweetest just before they open
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