The Rosebud
A rosebud waits, in morning’s chill,Its crimson cloak, a hidden thrill.In gentle hold, the dewdrops cling,To petals closed, a promised spring.Beneath the sun, a tender sigh,As shadows pass and birds fly high.It yearns for warmth, for light’s soft kiss,In quiet hope, it dreams of bliss.With each new dawn, it grows so slight,Yet holds its bloom,…