From barren soil a tender tendril sprouted-
To coax it into blooming I did yearn.
What sort it was; I never thought about it-
The plant’s survival was my chief concern.
When one leaf-swaddled bud began to swell,
My joy unfurled, and in those ardent throes,
I hoped my wishes blossoms would compel,
And -finally!- appeared a large pink rose.
Pink roses? Those clichés of trite romance?
That’s what my careful tending has produced?
No fragrant lily gave my plot a glance-
Nor fragile orchid my designs seduce.
Yet roses grew where I carefully tended
Who is to say that isn’t what’s impended?