To Be A White Rose

If I could be like anything —
(in shape
and form
and functioning)
— I should be like The White Roses.

Knowing surely there would be a day,
they’d all be picked
and plucked
and pulled away.

Still stubbornly growing.
(bigger, bolder, braver,
ever outward
toward the sun)

Petals undone.

Seeds spreading.

Roots tightly wrapped
around poisoned earth
where they were birthed,

Sharpening their thorns — in secret.
Stabbing the places
(they thought)
the gardener weakest.

If I could be like anyone,
(In how they lived
and what they’ve done)

I would be like The White Rose
(named Sophie)

Who as her stem was cut
— and metallic red splattered lily white —
still knew her fight was right.

“Such a fine sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter,
if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?”
- Sophie Scholl, February 22, 1943.

Copyright 2019 by Paul Curry