rose of yester-years

A red red rose he gave her for their first valentine,
Trembling fingers stored it in a journal,
Shining eyes softened at the sight.
The book was opened oft that year.

Now yellowed pages gather dust, as they have done for years.
In between lies still a not-quite-forgotten token:
Its blush lost, its youth stripped away,
A labyrinth of silver veins — stark.
In them flows the beauty of age, in them the eternity of love.