When catching up a wild rose
I search for one whose pose
proves delicate and fine
while leaves have finished withering
their stems lie fruitless until spring
when Nature takes her time.
The potted plant can't settle
this craving for a petal
beyond natural selection
and vines may offer pity
but winding is too witty
to win them serious mention.
A rosebush doesn't compromise.
For those patient and wise enough
to tender them perennially
receive beauty in returns
as frequently as ferns
but crowned with buds of royalty.
I found a rose in bleakness
trembling with the grimace
of a blushing sepal torn
and with this rose of roses
my embrace once softly closes
closes on her thorns.