Forty year old rose bush in the garden
Pink bud called “Queen Elizabeth”
Tightly furled at ten A.M. - no trace of gold
I know lurks at the heart of all the petals.

Strolling by at one P.M.
The first soft petal has made its move
And the one beside is pondering
How soon it needs to break away.

Four P.M. and the outer petals
Form a blushing halo around the bud
And there begins to be perfume
That hot house roses never have.

Eight PM. and the Queen parades
In all her pink and golden glory
Fully flared to mark her presence
And delight my eyes as I pass by.
ljm