She wrote about roses, A petal in every prose. She talks of someone and glows Hits the breaks and slows. Who makes her bloom? A lost bride or groom? Something grown in the wild? A sweet little child? Her sorrow is a garden, Heart will never harden. She wears her words like a crown, She pulls them up from the ground. A story weaved into a wreath, Memories picked like leaves. Poems like flowers in a bouquet, Who does she silently serenade?