the rose

Pricking my finger on the rose thorn
I saw my blood for the first time
Stinging endlessly
I cleaned it
My mother asked me
What had happened
Early that morning
I told her
How the pain off the thorn
Stung my finger
She kissed it softly
The rose was red
Violets were blue
The thorns dropped softly
From the rain and dew
the thorns were everywhere
But sitting there they called
The garden which this rise had laid
Was like stars chosen
Placed perfectly
Next to the moon
My finger still stung
The rise was the only one
That winter which grew
The only one with that soft dew
My mother that day...
Said that rose was chosen for you