The roses were perfectly sequenced,
single file, like papal swiss guards,
flouncing to the reel of hard wind,
forcing the flowers to bow at their tips,
inducing premature efflorescence
from natures levy on verdant seed
of a life surely limp and stunted.
Fatuous gardener who landscaped this,
must have spent too much time with the grapes.
Roses were born to blossom in bunch,
stems entertwined with thorns enabling
space to breathe yet bonded by root
from seeds of same for petals complexion.
Juxtapoitions were not meant for roses;
such fix is merely vantage for soldiers,
and food lines, drawn lines, two pairs of nines,
Chicago valentine massacres;
quite the stretch from where and how
a rose might find fertile comfort.