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Poem
In a quaint lovely little garden
Tended to by only a few keepers
Was a quiet cozy little corner
Perfect for nappy dreamy sleepers
There exists a fountain 
That has long since stopped it’s flow
And now it is an accent piece 
Of nature taking back with mossy overgrowth
On the top sits a boy, with his hat made of stone
And though he no longer has rivers, he is content observing his zone. 
There is a bush that is adored
For its beauty and its scent, despite its many thorns. 
And you would think that only ever sitting, he would find himself bored. 
But never during summer! Only in winter he mourns. 
This, his favorite plant, that he has watched since but a seed
Has been all the entertainment and joy that he could ever need. 
Because he remembers when it was only a foot tall and it gave to him his first favorite flower. 
Lovely and lively, shaded deep as when one in love falls, and he would gaze upon his favored hour after hour. 
But seasons change and winds grow cold. 
When it snows, not rains, delicate flowers fold. 

Dressed in white, trading green for brown
He waits patiently for her to shed her frozen gown. 
And when the birds begin their songs anew
He is filled with excitement as morning frost turns to dew. 
Returned at last is his favorite memory,
A dream he had forgotten, his only great reverie. 
Now that it’s been years, and the bush faithfully returns
A single budding flower? No, your patience has more earned. 
Now his favorite plant yields to him a crown 
And though he can never wear it, he is complete just to see it looking down. 
He knows which bud was his, his first favorite flower. 
He wouldn’t lose sight of it, not from his tower. 
Though it seems lost when winter comes and the budding season closes
He can always pick out quickly his favorite, the fairest of his roses.
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