My Roses How does the farmer from his garden rend Roses and sell them to some passerby, For water-laden crystal cannot mend The mortal wounds from which they soon will die. How does the farmer stoop on bended knee, Groom roses he has fertilized and fed And watched flirt with both butterfly and bee -- Then snip them, as they blossom, from his bed? Gorgeous roses grow in my garden's light, But I could never think to part with them -- Yellow and hot pink, green, red, wine and white! No, I could never clip them at the stem. I let my roses cling fast to the vine, And when they die, recall they once were mine. Copyright 2021 Bernard A. Quarterman, Jr.