Poetry

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I ‘m Fretful in the Garden


I am fretful in the garden,
Thinks the rose now on display,
For I see my friends all leaving,
One by one they go away.
I see the mistress through the window,
The salvation for my soul,
Will she take me to her bosom,
Save me from the coming snow.

My cries to her seem silent,
I wave my petals in the air,
Keep me from my destined future,
Is my one and only prayer. 
As she’s walking through the garden,
She stands above me with a sigh,
I reach upward in the moment,
Giving out un-tempered cries.

Tender fingers grip my branches,
My thorns soften for her touch,
With a twist she saves me,
From the winters coming rush.
I feel the warmth of her bosom,
My fragrance fills her nostrils there,
Her lips gently kiss my petals,
Savoring long the kiss we share.

All the others in the garden,
With jealous eyes watch me leave,
Their destiny is coming,
They feel it in each passing breeze.
My life’s prolonged with water,
In a vase I stand up straight,
No more dew will find my petals,
For me death will have to wait.

The snow is falling I can see,
The winter’s gift it freely gives,
No ones left within the garden,
Where so many use to live.
I watch the mistress comb her hair,
Humming soft her tunes,
Her beauty dominating,
Every corner of this room.

I look past her to the mirror,
I am shocked by what I found,
My reflection so revolting,
Withered old and turning brown.
Here as soft as our first meeting,
I was lifted with a sigh,
Seeking fragrance now diminished,
From my petals that have died.

Then without one ounce of mercy,
Or a tether of regret,
Dropped me back into the garden,
Just to wait upon my death.
There the chilling winds of winter,
Instantly began to grind,
As powdered chaff for blowing,
One petal at a time. 

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