The Gardener & the Rose

The garden’s pride,

displayed above the rest,

favored in the sunlight.

Vibrant, rich swirls of red encircling every inch, every petal.

Wonders of beauty, untold, unmatched by any other.

Wisdom of the earth, the sky,

commander of the soil,

the gardener’s book, detailed with tips of care,

overflowing with years of dedication.

Beautiful red, captivating to behold,

petals- why yearn so?

Sheltered through the gardener’s care,

filled with everlasting love.

The grass is no greener, the water no finer,

what more has nature to offer you?

Lovely strokes of red, disturbed by distant voices in the wind.

Foreign and strange vines, too much for this soft, delicate soil.

Too much for the gardener’s comforting words,

His reassuring touch.

Blotchy patches of muddy brown, twisted and corrupted through 

lost years of what was once truthful soil,

the vibrant red gone.

Ghostly faces line the petals, hindering pride,

the bloom shattered into millions of jagged pieces,

shredding the thin cloth of the past and destroying the springtime bounty.

What are these faces?

The gardener cannot see them.

Cannot stop them.

Crawling into every hole, every crevice,

squirming like decrepit insects,

disguised as sprinkles of sunlight,

 inserting their hateful poison . . .  

Time is not kind to those who cannot change.

Too late, the gardener’s thoughts cannot permeate His flower, His child.

It is not a rose,

no longer a rose, stranger than the strangest of faces-

 sapping and stealing the essence of each individually crafted flower

it surrounds.

Thorns sharpened once more,

 leeching on the leeches of life, where do you find remedy?

In pain? In suffering?

The hoe bends, the rake breaks against the roses’ hardened soil.

Unknown, strange, changed.

Gardener, keeper of the spring,

protector of this garden composed of warm love and life,

don’t forsake Your creation-

each wave specialized with Your care,

every thread finely detailed with Your love.

What’s in a rose, if not a rose?

The garden has taken its toll,

the soil has lost its strength to endure

the gardener has had enough.

The petals, shriveled and fallen.

All is crushed under crinkled mistakes.

The tools have been hung up,

the garden's gate shut.

Upon dead soil it lies-

never a flower, no longer a rose.