Roses

A rose by any other name
still has thorns, yet I
willingly risk the pain
to know the pleasure of
blooms, maybe imperfect by
horticultural standards;
those unique flowers whose
scents seem more intricate,
and thus far sweeter, with
petals of diverse textures

delightful to explore;
shapes and hues cheerfully
defiant are all the more
real to me than long stem
dozens; and so it is with
this yearning heart, rough
tract that it is, yet still
a garden awaiting she who
is free of spirit, to her
own self true