The last rose of summer was at its best,
It had the whole season silently formed in a sleepy rest,
Its bud, a perfect shape, was tapered just so,
It took its time; waited until fall to put on its show,A tea rose, ‘Peace’ by name,
With a pale yellow hue and edges of pink, as a frame,
The fragrance was light; perhaps the weather was too cool,
It waited long into the blossoming stage, way beyond the rule,
It waited so long, I began knitting it a yellow sweater to match its hue,
And when I presented it; it smiled and said, “Thank You,
I am sorry to say, I will be gone, when this season goes,
But, remember who I was, I was …
“THIS SUMMER’S LAST ROSE”