There are rose varieties that remind me of sunsets,

at that moment when the light still struggles

to blend the colors that even John Ruskin

could not quite capture; it would take a thousand

Keats, Shelleys, and Byrons to describe

the pinkish tips of nearby clouds,

or the purplish and the yellowish gradients

that enchant the longing for beauty

in our deepest depths.

No photograph can, with a million pixels,

do it justice--in the end it's just another picture,

a replica of the real thing--it must be witnessed.

Often relegated to cliché, it never grows trite--

an image known all over the world,

like the rose, it unfolds and invites

us to bend and bow and appreciate.