Sonnet IX - This Rose Could Never Be a Violet

A sonnet for me and my sister, on rising up to the occasion of a name, and owning it.

Rose bush off the front porch.

This Georgia October rose grew taller than me this year.

My middle name is Rose, and so I felt
  akin to the bush that, in June, around
  mailbox bloomed, where in childhood I dwelt.
  Liana is a vine. Did she feel bound
to her floranoma? Did she feel found
  in her name – a tropical vine clinging
  to tree for life while giving life and house
  to other creatures in forest setting?
By another name, this Rose would not be 
   the same. I’d be lily or violet. My 
   eyes wouldn’t soak up this identity – 
   from afar, tall beauty pleasing to eye;
up close, covered with protecting prickles
   that help rise above enemy pitfalls.

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