Innocence.
Like the subtle scent of a rose.
So fragile, despite its thorns.
An innocence we desire.
The soft brush of petals against one's skin
is so softly romantic, we dream.
Yet the rose, so innocent and so sweet,
retires at night. So shy.
It furls its petals
and hides from view
that which we desire.
But with patience, and the light of day,
innocence will come. Again. Return.
Innocent.
Elanor Maud 1998
Back To Poetry Index
