Two Young Roses

Two young roses, we are,
With thorns interlocked in
A nature embrace,
That will not be pruned by the
Sharp blades of the Loppers.

The winter shows signs of its' coming:
It spits with rancid breath, rain on our heads;
It sets on us the winds that play Chinese Whispers;
It waits for the embrace to end, but it never will-

For not even the tempest of snow, sleet, or hail
Can uproot the firm feelings of love
We have for each other;
Even the mighty frost cannot kill us.

The winter is only winter for the other plants.