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?