Summer fades slowly, the rose sees its time approaching. Her petals have lost their color, their fragrance, their light. They have began to peal away, one by one each night. The poor forgotten rose, that once reached for the sky, lies wilted and sorrowful as time ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days. This mourning, glorious rose knows what will come her way. Finally, the snow falls. The rose can stand no longer. Her steam cannot support the wait of the pure white coat that covers her. The pollen has all but gone now, every petal has laid to rest. The rose sheds a final tear and sings that she shone her best. Though none picked her from the bush before death could claim her light, she could not help the smile of joy at seeing the moon that night. The rose has died off now, the snow continues to fall, but one day, or so they say, her legacy will bloom. Then a new batch of roses, brighter and more robust, will take their place around her corpse and shine in her place for us.