In Bloom

The bloom is off the rose, the petals wither.
The thorns, though drying, serve to better prick.
Old age, it surely knows, as birthdays slither,
that skin becomes more brittle and less thick.

Perennial, we lack the flower's power
to rise again as seasons take their turn,
and dread the sudden striking of the hour,
our flower pot to double as an urn.

In search of deeper truths and hidden meaning,
we put down roots that, tendril like, branch out,
and look, in vain, for signs that we are greening,
for certainty that shadow is a doubt.

The end always the same. Hope some bring flowers.
Remembering our Mays, and April's showers.