Where To Start With Forgiveness

I am wrapped in shame Like the garden path lined by wilted roses And their thorny sidekicks. As I pluck in frustration, Pulling prickly forgiveness from my dungarees The garden fence shrinks into the dirt. But I don’t want the neighbours to see my front lawn, Not just yet. At least until the winter is over And the pruning is done. What if I were to see shame As though it were a lady beetle Even during the peak cold? She is forgiven for allowing her to express beauty in that present moment. I am never angry at her for daintily dancing across my arm. I am angry at myself for not pruning those roses sooner, though.