I touch a rose.
Scent says yes; the stem says steady—
a bright bead iron-sweet on my thumb.

Not punishment—grip.
The bush shoulders the weight of bloom, 
keeping its nerve when the wind leans in.

Soft carries an edge—
like shoreline on shingle,
like light made by a little shade.

I’ve learnt to carry tenderness
with a seam of ‘no’
stitched where it’s thin and tears.

When love arrives, I lift it slowly:
palm under bloom, fingers along the stem,
reading the small hooks it climbs by, slow.

Strip every thorn and the rose sags back—
beautiful,
going nowhere.

Keep the bloom; keep the bramble.
Come closer—only as kind as you can hold.

Tell me—without a little catch,
how would anything worth holding
manage the climb?