Autumn auburn leaves cloud the rose hip plants.
A woven basket, swings alongside knees, complimenting her pigtails’ sway.
Thorns bloody her fingertips, the basket spilling with the harvest.
She rushes in for rose hip tea.

The church bells ring, she is dressed in white,
the bridesmaids stride down the aisle carrying bouquets of red.
She smiles nervously all the way to the alter,
she longs for a cup of calming rose hip tea.

Sheets of white cover the ground on a cold Sunday morning.
Her kids layer in coats and scarfs which mimic mummies. 
Looking out the window to snow angels,
she smiles, sipping on rose hip tea.

Water droplets slither down the window glass,
her face has fallen but her eyes remain the same.
Her family gathers filling her last moments with love,
she craves one last taste of rose hip tea.

The leaves grow red and the weather grows colder,
her little ones are no longer small.
As they weep for the comfort of their mother,
they steep some rose hip tea.