Ears throb, red
    enlarged like the calloused hands of a work man

Progression succinctly procreating

Will it be pruned to grow
stout and fruitless
    Or will it be nurtured in its expanding plumage

The hands of the divine grasp the newly grown roses, and they sniff
     Gawking, hysterical, astounded, grateful

They roll in the thorns
  Because the wind doesn't blow