Roses After the Rain

After the rain,
the roses
were opening quietly.

The red
without raising its voice,
is breathing deeply
within the wet green.

On the petals,
small water droplets remain.

Each one
was trembling faintly,
like a brief memory
before receiving the morning light.

Beauty
is not something
that blooms only in dry places.

Even within petals that have been struck by rain,
touched by the wind,
and grown a little heavy,

there is still
a form that does not collapse.

The rose
did not look like it was waiting for anyone.

It does not need
to be praised,
to be picked,
or to have its name called.

It simply
kept its red
quietly
among the wet leaves.

In that appearance,
there was a silence deeper
than any splendor.

To say
it resembles love
might be saying too much.

However,
the things that are truly important,
sometimes,
like this flower,

remain wet,
remain fragile,
and yet,
stand there with dignity.

A raindrop
falls
from the edge of a petal.

It shines briefly
on a leaf,

and then,
as if nothing had happened,
vanished into the green of the garden.

The rose
is still blooming.

Deep within its red petals,
holding onto the remnants of the rain.

Not rushed by anyone,
just,
in the quiet afternoon,
slowly,
becoming beautiful.