True Love
The little old lady puts on her gloves and her hat,
walks out to her garden, with her little black cat.
She speaks to the plants as though they could hear,
the cat just stares at the lady and meows, poor dear.
She prunes and she primps each flower with care,
the flowers respond with beauty so fair.
She waters and weeds in all of their beds,
and all of this work, a complaint never said.
She waits and she waits for her flowers to bloom,
she would grow more, if she just had the room.
And finally one morning, the roses she loves,
open their wings like a beautiful dove.
She cut one at the stem, and held to her lips,
and kissed the soft pedals, while a tear gently slipped.
The little black cat thought to himself, why does a rose get so much love,
and not something more fitting, like an old lady's glove?
10/26/18
Copyright © Wren Rushing | Year Posted 2018
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment