Do you fault the rose,
So fragile, and colorful,
For its razor thorns?
To another, this question seems trivial, meaningless, and obvious. To me, it must mean everything. This was a thought, built over months, in the back of my mind, where Chrysanthemum works her subtleties behind it all, producing single thoughts once or twice a month.
Many of her questions go answered with ease, but then something like this comes along, and I cannot decide for the life of me which of us is crazier.
Perhaps the meaning is obvious, purely literal, and without any further meaning than asking if I like specific flowers. But, knowing as much as I do about her, she would not spend her one monthly letter asking me if I like roses.
But I cannot provide a proper answer without being informed. But I can't ask her another question.
Our system of communication is like that of two pen pals, but letters can only be sent by boat, downstream.
So I ask you, "Do you fault the rose for its thorns?"