But its flowers by any other names
Are roses, and the scent of them
Is pure as heaven spun moss and bud,
For all they've ever tasted is sun
And rain from sheets that fall
Across the sheer blue sky.
And when the blooms get old,
They fold themselves into cocoons
And sleep and fall into a deeper gloom
Than you can fathom.
But imagine, if you will,
Their joy in waking, swaddled and new,
More pink baby buds, more blue skies,
In the arms of some young mother
Who's still in love with their father.
-jenn
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