in a garden of flowers, one choice is what you chose, the sweetest of the flora, a purple, prickly rose.
defensive and hard, the roses thorns could slice and shard, -though the rose, was only scarred.
from past pickers and pruners, the rose had faced a harsh bloom, no others had known how to touch the rose, no others except you.
harsh trimmings, fixings, new beginnings: the rose was manipulated into other's wishings.
either too sweet, too bright, too sharp, or too kind.
the rose found itself unloved for it's natural shine.
while others wanted to change the rose, you just wanted to spend your time:
watching, shading, quenching, -- listening, relating.
never cutting my stems, or trimming my buds, letting me rise to the sun, truly being in love.
never hurrying my growth, you only stood to admire , my petals falling gracefully, as you allowed me to reach higher.
a perfect gardner who loves, you allowed the rose to Be. of all the flowers in the world, I am grateful you chose me.