‘Twas an imperfect rose

That decided to bloom

In spite of the gloom

And shadow of the garden

She grew in.


‘Twas not the grace of the sun

Nor the gardener’s hand

That decided the sturdy blossom

But refusal to break

For fragility’s sake

In the budding spring of her youth.


‘Twas an imperfect rose

That unfolded, ignored

On a bare and thorny limb

Twas not envy she felt

Toward her lovely kin

Crowded in the sun’s sweet rays

But sigh did she

For the gardener’s sigh

And the pleasure of his gaze.


‘Twas an imperfect rose

Whose petals fell as years

A bruised silken beauty

Shedding wistful tears

For in the autumn of her age

She’d found no need for the gardener’s gaze.


‘Twas an imperfect rose

That ceased to bloom

In the shadow and gloom

Of the garden she’d lived in

Yet it was in the sun’s rays

That she died that day

And in the dying became perfection.

About shannadodd

I'm a writer and a collector of words. I also tend to collect homeless critters. Currently, in addition to blogs, poems and books, I'm writing my second novel and beginning a graphic design business. When I'm not writing, I'm reading or cleaning or feeding someone. I hope you enjoy my poetry. I try, with my poems, to create pictures with words. I consider it art but not with my chin thrust out or my nose pointing skyward, it's art in the sense that like the painter or photographer I want to capture a moment or event or question. If I do that for you, I've succeeded. Thank you for reading and for your comments. It's means so much to me that folks are reading my poems.
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