The rose of November is the prettiest, the sweetest rose,
The one I love the most.
I have lived with her a while now,
From when she was a bud, through her summer years,
Among the other roses who have by this time given up in fear of the oncoming winter.
And yet, my rose younger gets,
And holds the baby roses on her knee and fills them with love,
And grows younger by association.
I would not cut this November rose and put her in a vase to show her beauty,
Because her beauty is evident daily in her garden of green and brown.
From where does she come this miracle of nature?
From North Dakota where the winters are cold and harsh;
No wonder she thrives on this moderate climate of the Willamette valley.
Though truth be told, she’d rather be at the beach.
Her birthday is November 25, my November Rose.
– Small town boy