The Rose
The thorns over grown and tough
Rip the flesh from her aging skin
Difficult as the chore may be
She prunes where others haven't been
Deep in thought as she does the job
Gloved hands remove the shoots
A distant glance shows a good change
Tender young parts buried take root
Some say she's too old for change
Just let the thick thorns remain
Time will tell if she did well
And if the pruning's healed the pain
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