I don’t want to grasp the rose. I’m afraid to be pierced and sacrifice a pinprick of blood. I just admire from a distance, though, sometimes, I will draw nearer and observe a little bit more closely, and, while not touching the rose, I do catch the faintest scent.
I smell the sweet rose’s breath but I won’t take it in hand.
Some have reached out to me even though I am armed with thorns. They have grasped me, not daintily, between fore finger and thumb, but whole-handedly, ignoring the pain and have been punctured for their openness, trust and love. Continue reading Grasp The Rose by Tim Philippart