she wasn’t meant
for roses
no ordinary bloom
could spare the vine
so intertwined
with wild and wanting
roots

sometimes a weed
of twisted lace
is all she desires to be
a rare bouquet
of everything –
a garden growing free

beyond the need
for crimson
ruby reds and pinks
a shade of honeysuckle
seldom bleeds

she wasn’t meant
for roses
edges so defined
a mystery –
of tangled leaf
by love
left unconfined

. . .