The skeptics pull time from their pocket
and sneer at our roses–
our
roses–
the ones we planted, deep and tender,
hand in hand, together.

They talk of leaf and grief and winter,
and do not understand our treasure–
the one the Father sealed to us,
hand in hand, together.

It’s Easter’s song; it’s promises;
it’s soil and rain and sun and Spring
and rose hips–
our
rose hips–
rose hips to be planted,
deep and tender,
hand in hand,
together.

photo credit: ajft (Flickr)