The page as blank as fallow field
until a seed takes sprout. With bloom
there comes a crop of thorns,
some weeds, maybe an aphid or two,
to mar the petals’ silk,
The rose stands stately, bright.
Such is the creation that we crave,
Reason enough to prune, and weed.
There is joy in the crafting.
The constant tending, even when
flowering is no more than dream.
We’re gardeners all
in quest of the impossible perfection,