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The Rose Bush
A beautiful rose bush
Grew in my garden once
But as time passed,
And as the years wore on,
It began to grow decrepit.
It’s stems grew brown and brittle,
Few buds on it grew.
At the end of that next summer
I knew it had to go.
I began to cut it’s branches
But one at a time.
Those brittle branches did resist,
Their thorns drew at my blood,
As I labored away,
The branches fell one by one.
And as I cut, I inevitably
Found a living sprig or two.
It pained me most
To cut these down.
The last reminders of
What beauty the plant once held.
The thorns cut and punctured my skin
And the pain began to mount.
I wanted to stop cutting,
But I knew the plant was dead.
And even as the last branch fell,
The plant still had it’s root.
It was thick with years of growing.
But I knew I had to dig it out.
At this part I worked the hardest,
And I began to sweat.
The roots would not give way,
So deeply buried in the soil.
But I labored persistently,
For I knew it had to be done.
And when the roots finally did give way,
I heaved an awful sigh.
My garden, ridded of the rose bush,
Was left with but a gaping hole.
All that was left was to hope.
To hope that one day,
I should be so lucky
As to have a rosebush more beautiful grow
In that garden, to fill the hole.
And for luck not only did I pray,
But for the wisdom to care for it,
To never let the new rose bush
Be harmed and wither away.
