Flowers blossom in summer and she, the one who tends.
The rose that took years to bloom, exhilarates that shimmering white. It would be enough.
But for her eyes look beyond. Between the fence that hides the beauty of her creations.
Stems that escape to her. Petals that don’t belong to her.
The scandalous desire to take them. It would be more than enough.
Yet either’s beauty cannot be taken as the weight piles.
The guilt lets them grow and she waters them once again.