It was in a used bookstore,
In a book he’d gone to buy,
The comments he read, in the margins,
Would put tears in a cynical eye.

In lines any author would envy,
She had penned her concepts of life.
Her words showed such inner beauty,
They cut through his heart like a knife.

He vowed he would find this woman
Whose writing still burned in his heart.
But how could he keep such a vow,
He didn’t know where he should start.

In the margin, on one of the pages,
He found his first tiny clue.
In a line, she referred to herself
And said that her nickname was “Brew.”

And then, on the very last page,
The name and address of a friend.
He sent her his heart in a letter,
How he’d found the lines she had penned.

With a kiss and a prayer he had mailed it,
His chances were slim he well knew.
He wrote on the back of the envelope,
“Will you forward this letter to Brew?”

It was then fate dealt him a blow
That the Devil himself must have crafted.
A government telegram came,
With a notice that he had been drafted.

A whole year of training and moving,
Then a letter had reached him in ‘Nam.
From her, the girl in the margin,
Forwarded there to him by his mom.

No lines that he could concoct
Could match what she wrote to him.
It filled his whole day with joy
Which no war or fighting could dim.

They wrote back and forth to each other,
‘Til each knew the other by heart.
She insisted that looks didn’t matter,
No pictures exchanged from the start.

The comfort they felt with each other,
Their thoughts in perfect coherence;
A love that they both agreed
Transcended all personal appearance.

Then his enlistment was over.
If his heart could withstand the strain,
They would meet in Grand Central Station,
Where she would arrive by train.

Just how would he know his beloved
With crowds of people so great?
“No picture,” she still insisted,
“Just be there, and don’t be late.”

He asked what she would be wearing,
“Just tell me what color your clothes.”
She said they would know in their hearts
and she would be carrying a rose.

He arrived there two hours early,
This is the day they would meet.
So long he’d dreamed of this day
With plans just how they would greet.

He knew her the second he saw her,
Perfection from head to her toes.
His heart, overwhelmed by her beauty,
But where had she hidden the rose?

Her perfume engulfed him in passing,
Her countenance bouncy and gay.
He knew he was smitten forever,
When she whispered, “Going my way?”

It was then that he saw the woman
Watching them in quizzical pose;
No beauty, but eyes that showed depth,
And she was holding a rose!

His anguish a burden too great,
His vision was walking away.
But the love he had shared with this woman,
No doubt where his future lay.

With feet like lead, he approached her
To take her in his embrace.
“Hey guy, I don’t think I know you!”
But a smile was crossing her face.

“The girl who just passed you by,
Asked that I give this to you.
She said she would wait in the lobby
And that you would know what to do.”

“She said no love could be greater
And told me just how she knows,
Your souls were meant for each other.
She knew you would bring her this rose.”

The Rose was my first love poem. The story on which it is based was sent to us by a friend; best of all, it came just in time for Valentine’s Day.

Ruth sent the poem out in her Valentines and I was overwhelmed by the responses. I hope that you get just as much enjoyment out of reading The Rose. It always seems to me that stories improve when put to rhyme. Maybe it’s just because so much thought has to be put into each line to carry out the rhythm and make the necessary words rhyme.

As I see it, the moral of the story is to follow your heart but take care of your commitments first. If our hero had followed his dream girl but without the rose to give her, he would not have measured up to her expectations though he may well have won her in the end.