The Rose

Some years ago, the gardener chose me over the others. She carefully tended me and planted me in the center of her garden. And for my part, I flourished. In return, I yielded large fragrant blooms. Roses as yellow and vibrant as the crisp morning light. Once I graced her table. Together we knew joy.

Choked by weeds, swallowed by aphids, bent crooked, the merciless drought leaches me daily. I lay down, wither forgotten. She flies past oblivious, a thorny scowl etched upon her face. A gardener who cares neither for this garden nor for her unimportant rose waiting, heartbroken.


Picture is copyright by Rose Braverman.

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