A sassy scarlet bloom, she was born,
quick to unfurl, and too easily torn.
She rode life hard wearing leather and boasting scars.
She danced under the moon counting the stars.
They called her a gypsy, a fallen queen,
with spirit wild and her ball gown gleaned.
She braved the rain, the wind, and the sun.
Paled to gold when her final day was done,
She was more beautiful than when she had begun.
She lay in rest upon a bed of dead pine,
her petals and crown, an intricate design
of cycle and season, yours and mine.