Post by Dan on Jan 21, 2009 14:51:43 GMT -5
I used to walk behind my house;
We had a garden back there
And in it was a rose bush.
Mother always pruned it without rush;
Each movement was deliberate,
Almost done with some enjoyment.
She pruned so much in the garden,
But I never saw the reason.
I would watch her most times
Listening to her songs and rhymes
As she worked tirelessly among the thorns;
Her gloves always came back torn.
I scarcely knew why she continued.
"Doesn't it hurt?" I always asked.
And she would always reply "Yes,"
Then smile and return to her mess.
Each time that gave me the thought
That she knew something I did not.
One day, when I asked,
A moment in silent thought, she waited,
And then invited me to her
Causing me, from my silent corner, to stir.
She pulled me close and pointed out
Into the dense thicket
Dotted with bulbs of bloomed red.
Her pointing continued
Until I saw a flower, pale, and pink,
Crumbling, dying, thirsting for drink.
Suddenly, she cut it
With one swift movement,
And wordlessly bid me wait.
Weeks later, in the garden, I noticed
That in the spot my mother had attacked,
A thin green sprout had risen,
Stretched out if just awoken.
My mother moved beside me stealthily
And spoke to me quietly:
"This is your answer. This is why
When roses crumble, wither, and dry--
Although my hands may bleed--
The flowers must be pruned
Else--you should know--
The roses will never grow."
We had a garden back there
And in it was a rose bush.
Mother always pruned it without rush;
Each movement was deliberate,
Almost done with some enjoyment.
She pruned so much in the garden,
But I never saw the reason.
I would watch her most times
Listening to her songs and rhymes
As she worked tirelessly among the thorns;
Her gloves always came back torn.
I scarcely knew why she continued.
"Doesn't it hurt?" I always asked.
And she would always reply "Yes,"
Then smile and return to her mess.
Each time that gave me the thought
That she knew something I did not.
One day, when I asked,
A moment in silent thought, she waited,
And then invited me to her
Causing me, from my silent corner, to stir.
She pulled me close and pointed out
Into the dense thicket
Dotted with bulbs of bloomed red.
Her pointing continued
Until I saw a flower, pale, and pink,
Crumbling, dying, thirsting for drink.
Suddenly, she cut it
With one swift movement,
And wordlessly bid me wait.
Weeks later, in the garden, I noticed
That in the spot my mother had attacked,
A thin green sprout had risen,
Stretched out if just awoken.
My mother moved beside me stealthily
And spoke to me quietly:
"This is your answer. This is why
When roses crumble, wither, and dry--
Although my hands may bleed--
The flowers must be pruned
Else--you should know--
The roses will never grow."
[/shadow][/glow]