The Solitary Rose

Well, I've always been good at beginning things - never really at continuing or finishing them off.
But this will hopefully be the start of a short story (or perhaps just left as a piece of poetic non-description, who can tell!?);

The Solitary Rose

The solitary rose stood there suspended, glistening in the dawning sky. The layer of fresh dew from the night before - frozen, imprisoning the blossoming spirit in a glowing glass-like time capsule. The early onset of winter had caught it off-guard in full glory.
It wavered as a harsh but gentle breeze moved it like a metronome, it's bud following the southern wall which peeped inches above the jagged ridge.
It bobbed and weaved, taunting the poor collection of rocks calling itself a 'wall' until, without warning, the wind ceased - as if awaiting it's arrival.

I was toying with the idea of a rosewood fire with the sweet smelling smoke.. But don't like the use of 'rose' twice.
I could use Cedar - but not a lot of people know that Cedar is a type of wood.

So as always, it's the little niggly bits which stop me going forward. If I had a good type of wood which I feel comfortable using then I could continue on.