Roses, roses, all the way

Thus, the rose,

Is rose red.
Not pink.
No, never pink.
I'm not a pink.
Oh, why not pink?
Is pink too girly?
Probably!
I don't do pink.
I do red, though.
The reddest red.
Passion,
Even though
All passion's spent.
A dusty red?
Perhaps,
A little like
Dried blood?
Oh, no,
More like an old red rose.
Yes, that's me.

Spring Flowers

Spring flowers trembling
In a breeze too cold.
Small beads of light
In the brief sunshine
Of a gloomy afternoon.

My heart sighs to see them,
And then it sings;
As they wield
Tiny swords of hope,
Against winter's grey despair.