You blossom,
a rose of dark beauty
and haunting fragrance.

I was the anxious gardener,
fretting when life's bitter squalls
-- toil, loneliness, misunderstandings --
buffeted you.
Too protective, I neglected to prune
suckers of self-indulgence
pinch off messiness, self-pity
redirect a tendency to sulk.

The Master Gardener must have taken
his secateurs to you
for your petals that lately unfurl
are not the fruit of my
tentative touch.

By Violet Nesdoly