Her color catches you first–
blushing pink surrounded
by louder, redder sorts–
your early girls, your better boys–
a wall flower at the dance. 

Our Rose needs no dressing up.
Her shy sweetness with an edge 
of sass plays well with just a sprinkle
of salt. She’s not to proud to tuck
into a sandwich, play second fiddle. 

But you won’t want her to.
Once she’s seduced you, you’ll pay
her proper respect, arrange her
on your prettiest plate, break out
your finest olive oil. 

While she lasts, you’ll keep coming
back to her. With her veil-fine skin,
her weight heavy in your hand, you’ll
feel the languid warmth of July nights,
the laziness of August days.