The weary rose bush,
Expansive in her mass
Of tangled branches.
Few blooms, tired and bleak.
Mired in her deadwood;
Twisted, gnarled, ungiving branches,
Sapping the strength from her heart.
To restore her splendour,
He fiercely cuts away
The thorny twigs
And tends lovingly
The budding shoots.
In life’s garden
We are each a rose
And each the gardener.
Trim, trim trim away
The tangled deadwood.
Find the shoots of budding promise.
Tend and nurture
Friendships with buds to bloom.
The blooms of love
Will fill your life with colour.
Among the splendour
Don’t mourn the odd thorn,
They are softer on green shoots than deadwood.
SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD
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