Written By:   Birl Brown

My eyes eagled over the room

     Alighting upon a projection

Of an elegant rose in bloom

     Free of its urn’s protection.

Like an apple of crimson hue

     Bewitching its verdant site,

It glistened in pearls of dew

     Its silent lyrics of light.

Ephemeral, its blush, demure,

     Over the brazen art.

Why does the base endure

     And the viable rush to part?

There are things too deep to discern

     Like the essence of time, I suppose,

For God never made an urn

     Nor man a rose.