In the garden outside my door
the roses are sweeter than ever before.
I take a second to stop and smell,
the scent of childhood I know so well.
Years past the roses would bloom, and lift my spirit full of gloom.
My mother would place them in a vase, but only for a day would the beauty last.
Like a rose my mother’s soul,
brillant colors of crimson and gold.
© Lori Leigh Riddles 1999