A Rose

The rose, it means so much to me;
For it was my Mother's name, you see.
It matters not, if it's red or white;
It's still a reminder of her life.

A life she gave so full of love;
As now she smiles, from above.
The rose is still my flower of choice;
As yet I hear my Mother's voice.

Reminding me that I must survive;
To keep her name, and memory alive.

© Betty Hawkins 2004
(All Rights Reserved)