I Wonder Why

I wonder why

The cynics think there is a thorn

                      that grows

for every lovely, blooming rose;

That fragrance sweet from all our roses

Is merely meant to spoil our posies.

I wonder why

the cynics think each pensive pleasure

Will surely mar each sacred treasure;

When just as surely as joy brings pain,

There are always roses after rain.

                                                                V.C.