Wait for me! Please don’t go, it won’t be long now. I promise, you’ll see me more than just a little brown speck of dirt. No – my heart is much more than that. But wait and see! It’ll come, with the rain, and sunlight, and birdsong. Each in its own time. When the world is green, you will see it more than just green. But wait for me then! I am coming . . .

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There, do you see it? That burst of yellow green? No? Well, let me try a little harder. Ah, there, now do you see it? Like a flash of green lightning in the deep, dark clouds of rolling earth. You see it? Wonderful! Now, wait – what was that? You wonder what it is? Wait a little longer, and you’ll see. No, it’s not really lightning, or light even. But the light makes it grow. Wait a little longer. They are coming . . .

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At last! Oh, the wonderful rays of light – I feel alive! What a beautiful day. No, I can’t see it yet. Will I see it? Well, yes, when my head has risen from the other folds of green. You see these two waving hands that opened moments ago like the whisper of Amen? They are my leaves. Leaves, you wonder? Ah, leaves are the green, soft things which help the plants to grow. Yes, I am a plant. Not grass or a daisy or even a tree. No, but I hold a very special promise. Just wait. It is coming . . .

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I am tall! Do you see me? Waving in the wind and whispering to the butterflies? You do! My long stems are green with hints of pink, and my leaves a deeper green than they, all veined by the fiery yellow-green. Ah, you have seen it, haven’t you? The bud. Well, yes, that is what it is called. Remember when I said my head would rise? That it is. This is my promise, and soon – very soon – you shall see it fulfilled. Only wait and it will come to you. You shall see me, and wonder that I am not a butterfly. I am coming . . .

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The rain is gentle on my unfurling bud. Ah, it quenches my thirst. Now is evening, after many days and weeks of slow, steady growth. I think – I don’t know – but I think you shall see me tomorrow. When the sun rises over the trees and through the low grass. Then will my promise be complete. Watch for the sunrise. It will come . . .

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And as you return to the place of the small green plant who has whispered many gentle, loving things for the past three months, you see atop her longest stem – in place of the bud from before – a swirling lace of pale, sun kissed pink.

She is a rose.