Nothing blooms all year.

Not flowers.
Not trees.
Not people.
This is my winter.

Brought from an eternal spring,
I learned to survive the freezing cold.
Survival became instinct.
A rose from a different climate.

To bloom, I need sun,
water,
patience,
love.

To die, only neglect.
Forgotten in a corner of the house.

And still, this flower endured.
Through winters that took more than they gave.
With minimum rations.
With shaking roots.
With faith worn thin.

Today, the cold feels heavier.
The body weakens.
The mind fractures.
The heart breaks open.

The rose wonders
if it has the strength
to survive another season.

It must.
It will try.

Because roses are deceptive:
their petals are fragile,
but their roots are not.

They survive poor soil.
They adapt.
They return.

This is not the end of blooming.
This is only my winter.