In the life of a rose, I've lived and died a hundred times. You watch me open, bloom, wilt, rot, and start over. You watch me again, and again, and again, and again. And each time, my time measured in light. Final breath, finding, losing. Time giving so much, and then taking everything away. And I wonder this time next year, what would I look like? With my guesses so often so wrong, I wonder what beginning and what end waits for me. Will I have accepted the things that I cannot change? And will I have changed the things I cannot accept? This time, next time, about time.
