I saw her through my bedroom window on the second floor.
Beautiful, bright, and pink.
I thought, “Do you have no idea it’s November?”
Or, maybe you do,
and you’re blooming still.

In that moment, I thought of myself;
How through the darkest moments I have still managed to bloom.
How frozen fingers have reached through my chest cavity and tried to stop the beating of my heart.
But I have bloomed in love anyway.

How when everything and everyone around me has hibernated or died away,
I still bloom. I still grow. I still exist.
Regardless of what season I’m in.

I realize the bush that she grows on is now seven-feet tall. Towering.
She is the only bloom on the entire bush.
She doesn’t seem to care.
She’s just determined to have one final bloom before it’s time to sleep.

She doesn’t follow the rules.
She doesn’t make herself small.
She doesn’t hide when the danger of frostbite on her petals looms.
She stands alone like a beacon.
She reminds everyone, including the rest of the bush, she’s a rose!

She’s untouched, unspoiled, unafraid.
Everything freezes around her, but she blooms.

Proud, pink, and unfrozen.
She reminds me,
I, too, am the rose.