I heard the roar of his motorcycle before I saw him, quieting to a murmur as he parked beside the shed. I knew he would use the overrun bushes nearby to hide his bike and I heard the crinkle of the leaves as he walked to the door. Five steps separated his bike from the door and I counted them in my head.
She did not bloom in the warmth of spring— Her petals did not wave at the bees And butterflies fluttering by, And she did not bask in the sun, While the birds chirped their lullabies.
She was more suited to the chill of winter— Her petals glistened with icy snowflakes With thorns as sharp as icicles, For she was a rose that bloomed in adversity, Thriving where no one thought possible.