The Perfect Rose

I saw the loveliest rose in the world.
It was as big as my hand with my fingers outstretched.
It's color was the deepest, most brilliant red ever seen by mortal eyes.
Each petal was perfectly formed and
Showed not the slightest intention of falling to the grass below.
It was the utmost flower on its bush.
I saw it peaking over the fence of some forbidden garden.
Why did it climb so high for only a glimpse of my monstrous yard?
Surely my patch of weeds and tangled wildflowers
Could not be prefered to its own flowerbed.
A thing so beautiful could never be at home there.
Better that it should turn its gaze back from whence it came
And enjoy that wondrous view.
Does the person who lives in the house beyond the garden
Know of the existance of this rose?
If he saw it would he know and appreciate it for what it is,
The most beautiful of its kind?
Would he cut it from its bush and place it in a crystal vase on some table indoors?
I have heard that flowers live longer that way.
But what is the point of preserving such beautiful radiance
That cannot be shared with the world?
Then better it should stay on the bush in the garden with its sister roses.
But then suppose it should rain.
Its perfect petals would be ripped-out by the wind,
The whole thing beaten by the rain and shattered upon the ground.
One could ponder all these things but in the time it took to ponder them
The perfect rose would lose its brilliant hue,
Bleached by the sun, its petals would wither and wilt
And when you looked up from your pondering
You would behold not the loveliest rose ever seen by mortal eyes but a dead thing,
No more special than any other decaying flower.