I know where grows a perfect rose
And so I'm lucky I suppose
Since it's well known they're seldom grown
On feral vine or pampered rows.
They grow instead in random beds
And just by chance or grace instead
And seldom seen by King or Queen
But just by luck, or so it's said.
I found one though at Mom's chateau
All by itself within a row
Of ancient root, one single shoot
From withered stock it had arose.
There's still some shine in that old vine
As if it were by God's design
To raise its head in Mother's bed
To that I guess I should resign.
The perfect rose that seldom grows
On feral vine or pampered rows...
But grows instead in flower beds
Of yet another perfect rose!
Timothy I. Brumley
To my Mother with love.