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Poem

Three men each grew a precious rose
They all had different thoughts
Of how to raise and nurture them
Of the outcomes that they sought.

The first man shirked all effort
Just plunged a hole within the soil
His rose grew, waned then wilted
It suffered from his lack of toil.

The second man possessed great intent
By preparing fertile ground
Purchasing almost everything
Gave his rose all that could be found.

This rose developed entirely spoilt
It flourished better than a weed
Except it too deformed and shrivelled
When he could no longer feed its needs.

Our third man was a pauper
However his heart was like a king
All he had was time and love
But he knew his rose would sing.

He too prepared quite fertile earth
But he never spent a cent
He freed the dirt for solid roots
He knew this rose was heaven sent.

He spent what he could just afford
Although mostly invested time
Talked and fussed and loved his rose
No surprise it grew up really fine

This man finally met his grave 
Wilted then died when he grew old
His rose still grows and prospers
It flowers so bright and so bold.

Precious gifts require attention
Only exceptions grow up wild
Treasures need time and care
Imagine each rose could be a child.

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