It's not alive, but not quite dead, no buds are there to pinch.
My simple rose looks dead and gone, no life sparks there within.
Yet other plants among the dead, grow tall and bright and trim.
The sun streams down, from up above and dries out all the soil.
I wish the rose, would grow for love, as on the ground I toil.
With loving care I tend my rose and pray that she will grow.
Just one small bud is all I ask, before the coming snow.
I watch to see a shoot break out, right through the tender bark.
I marvel at the little bud, so clean, so bright, so stark.
The days drift by with not a sign, of life within that tree.
Until at last, there springs a twig, for you and me to see.
That night alas, as kids did play, a foot kicks at my rose.
The bud that was, has gone for good, it lies there comatose.
My rose she lives and leaves unfurl, to greet the morning sun.
I sit and watch the twig grow strong, I know my work is done.