My true love asked me for my hand,
Before I answer I demand
He first must bring a bright blue rose.
"I'll search the world for one of those",
Was his reply and off he went.
For many weary months he spent
In searching for elusive blue.
I turned away each offered hue.
Heartlessly, I bade him go
To every flower and garden show,
To find the rose for which I pine,
That I might claim rare rose as mine.
His spirits sagged each time I said
"I do not want a pink or red.
I'll only settle for a blue
If I'm to give my hand to you".
He answered, "Love, I've done my best.
The impossibility of the quest
Has weakened me unto my death.
I've sought your rose with my last breath".
With thse last words my true love died.
For many days and nights I've cried.
Where it has come from no one knows,
But on his grave grows a blue rose.
By Joyce Johnson 6/14/10