She breathes an air of confidence,
thick and heavy with the perfume of strength.
She dives in with both head and feet,
doing the backstroke through life.
Swift and sharp movements make the
water ripple onto the shore
of her destiny.
A massive wave of excellence
catches her like a fishnet.
Not to trap her or condemn her,
but allowing her to breathe an even
better air of reality.
For a rose is still a rose,
even when floating through the water
of a longsuffering life.
For a rose is still a rose,
when drowning in the sandy
layers of the land.
A rose is still a rose,
when she comes to your bedside.
A rose is still a rose,
when she's washing your dishes
or cleaning your clothes.
A rose is still a rose,
when she is tending to the sick
or making dinner for hungry souls.
A rose is still a rose,
no matter what ground she's planted in.