Moses of Roses

The clouds cried passionately The streets took a shower I poured me some whiskey to drink To drink think to link the droplets and form an image. My bed room window was foggy I rubbed it with my sleeve but it slightly appeared again when I breath. From a distance I saw a rose it began to appear close it was soaked the wetness seemed to intensify every petal the rose was spinning happily in the rain skipping making beats of its own I watched its thorns fall as it set its self free trying to escape every last bee. I walked outside introducing my self she said let me guess your a bee she giggled have you come to pollinate me I am sorry I won't just make your temporary honey. I said no I am a gardener who never cuts his roses stem for a bouquet the gardener who waters his roses I am the moses of roses the gardener who removes the dead leaves I won't be like those bees who simply come and leave I will wear your petals on my sleeves. I am the gardener who counts the petals on his rose the gardener who cherishes inhaling the sent of the rose up his nose and guides it as it grows the gardener who lifts the roses head up when the rain pours down on its crown and makes it frown in my garden you'll be safe and sound. The gardener who counts the thorns the gardener who removes the weeds and never fails to plant a good seed a gardener catering to his flowers every need. The gardener who loosens the soil so the roots may grow plating them in the right spot so the sun they will soak. She said hmmm sound like miracle grow. I said at least you know.