A Rose

A rose I have, red with but enough white
To assure the purity of the flower.

A twin, a gift, it has,
Not extremely distant,
In a similar vase, upon a similar shelf.
Yet I wonder, 'How fairs this twin?'
'Does one yearn for the other as a person might another?'

My rose is red with but enough white
To assure the purity of the flower.
With what hue does its second radiate
As admiring eyes fall upon its delicate existence?
Is it white or is it red?
Or does it show itself some other shade complete,
owing no allegiance to its brother?

My rose has exploded from a bud to flower,
Seeking to find the sun and the light therein.
What form does its sister espouse
To the beat of the nearby clock?
Do petals yet enclose the beauties within?
Has the bud become a flower?
Or have the petals shriveled coldly from a
More exquisite consummation?

My rose rests comfortably in soothing waters,
Neither too warm nor too cold, and clear in aqua pura.
How feels the water within which
Its companion spends its days?
Is its moat warm and inviting?
Or is the water cold and draining,
Numb to the needs of the charge?
Is the fluid translucent through faithful attentions?
Or is the water murky from neglect or laxity?
My rose stands proud in a crystalline vase,
Clear and supporting in structure.
In what manner of vessel does its partner repose?
Does its setting augment its beauty and protect its fragile form?
Or is its vase marred in disuse,
As it lets the flower droop from a lack of shoulder?

My rose emits sweet fragrance which permeates the room
And forces back less aromatic scents.
With what bouquet does its mate declare its presence?
Is its perfume strong and sweet, intoxicating its lover?
Or is the scent sour and musty,
Revealing its decaying being?

A rose I have, red with but enough white
To assure the purity of the flower.
It has a twin (a gift), a sister of a sort....
I know it wonders how thrives its sibling.

I but wonder how loves its sister's mistress....