A Black Rose

I’ve never been much of a gardener: I don’t know a pansy from a daisy, nor ivy from nettles, but I do know roses, and I know of the rarest. She is a black rose with silken petals who thrives in moonlight, and turns her head towards serenades of silent reflection: I sing to her daily...and sometimes she listens.

I’ve never been much of a gardener: I don’t know a bluebell from a buttercup, nor weeds from wisteria, but I do know about beauty, and I know of the most beautiful. She’s a black rose with silken petals who survives the coolest winters, and withering summers. Impossible to prune, perennial...she just grows...and knows.

...And knows I’m not much of a gardener, but...