Once a gentle rose bush,
Blew along the shore,
It found itself a gardener,
And did not want for more.
He came and saw it less and less often
Until he said, "This cannot be."
And so he packed up his tools,
And moved away from that spot near the sea.

And so the rose waited, stalwart, and aware,
Convinced he would return some day, if a little worse for wear.
But never did he return, and as the years rolled by,
All the rose bush could do was sit aside and cry.
The rose bush grew wild, until a youth passing heard its sighs.
And while he attended it gently, the rose still saw the gardener, with
its saddened eyes.

Then one day, the gardener returned, to that spot near the sea,
Though the rose slowly realized, "He has not come back for me."
And so across the field, the rose would sit still trying not to feel,
Until the news reached the grove, before another the gardener had
kneeled.
A finally shock reached the small rose, and when it dropped its petals
that fall,
The sad state of the rose, would almost make another passer-by bawl.

Only through the shock did the rose grow more,
Sitting happily with the youth along the golden shore.
And while its petals had lost some of their shine,
The rose still beamed, knowing the youth said proudly, "This rose here
is mine."
And as the years passed by, a thought drifted past the rose, carried by
the wind.
"Elated with my youth, now do I own the peace to with all my heart the
best wishes to the close yet distant gardener send."

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Ios, in the year 127 MA.