The White Rose

Before a storm of men she stands,

Her beauty greater than the land’s.

The light in each sailor’s day,

The hope of many who would cross her way.

A vision seen in the night,

A soothing siren to every man’s plight.

She is the calm within the storm,

The dream of the weary and the worn.

Ignoring the waves of things said,

She keeps her heart from growing dead.

Only wanting to be understood,

Knowing that someday she would.

Upon a course than only she knows,

Not swayed by where the wind blows.

Her thoughts not blue, her desires not said,

She is the white rose in a sea of red.

Marc W. George

July 24, 1994