A rose smells soft once groomed by loving shear,
The dust that settled on this gardener’s soul
Is stirred by breathing deep the odor dear:
The offered silk smooth blanket wraps me whole,
Not freely given but by ****** price:
A finger pricked by thorn but once or twice.

Though, gardener’s blood pays not the full expense,
For “loving” shears show love by marring thee.
For those without the florist’s favor hence
Are coldly culled, denied their right to be.
The chosen thrive by cost of others’ doom;
Thus goes the tale of gardener and the bloom.

If gentle stem is pressed by nature’s breeze,
That wood is stronger by the season’s end.
And though the sun may burn or ice may freeze,
Fair nature does not seek to break or mend.

And though a tree may shade it’s neighbor shrub,
It canopies by nature, not by will.
And though the mother bird may eat the grub,
The beast would likewise die without the ****.

Nor may the viper will away it’s fangs,
Nor wolf nor dog grow flat it’s tearing jaws,
Nor spider may retire the web it hangs,
Nor lioness may glove her slashing paws.

By lawless rule does nature rule alone,
Indifferent to whom all should die or live.
If each within that space pursued their own,
By happenstance, by fate would favor give.
Yet we unnatural twist that hand of fate,
Perverting life that we did not create.

The gardener looks upon their rose to say,
"What skill is mine for crafting beauty thee?"
While nature's fair design we thus betray.
While owning life that truly aught be free.
While stealing thee from nature's very womb.
Thus goes the tale of gardener and the bloom.