There was black.
And there was white.

In the silence of the morning mist,
a golden halo frames a pale face,
set and stern,
stiff above a coal-black gown that
brushes against the shiny marble
in the dewy grass.
Numb,
she reads the words,
finely chiseled
into rocky gray…
new and
dead.
A tear splashes on
the cold
gravestone.

In her grasp
one white rose
lies wilting,
stark against her dress.
She bows her head,
staring at the pencil lines
sweeping into petals
of velvety softness,
shining bright,
sparkling in the sunlight.

White and black,
life and death
pulse through her weary mind,
searing every breath of air
until it is her
heartbeat.

Why does so much beauty grow in
darkness?

The pain is coursing
through her veins,
her hands are icy cold with hurt,
her swirling brain is
throbbing.
Yet, as she glances down again
upon the smooth curves
and pale white,
she knows that within the mourning
she is not alone.

“Dear daughter,”
speaks a glowing voice,
“Come unto me,
forget your fears
and let me take away your tears.
For I bring life and
I bring hope.”

And then,
as though a mist had cleared,
the gruesome shadows of her pain
fade from her eyes—
yet sorrowful but
new with peace.
Quietly she places upon the stone
a slender rose,
milky white
and flawless.
A sudden understanding warms
the pupils of her eyes.

Oh, pure rose,
resting in the throes
of death,
fresh amid the pain,
undefiled by ugliness,
ornament on every grave—
they say white petals
are for death,
but you
breathe
life.
Even through the brokenness,
you stand tall,
elegantly graceful,
reminding us that death is not
the finish line—
it is but entrance
into life.

You,
white rose
with ivory skin,
awaken hope within our souls,
for we know that in the pain of death,
life—eternal, sweet, and pure—
is whispering,
“'tis not the end!”