The gates of her garden are left open to wanderers
They say she’s too friendly and she shouldn’t be so trusting
that matters of love are a waste of time
But that isn’t her
The roses died and bloomed
and dried out
They’ve been over watered,
pruned too early,
and forgotten,
But come spring they show their rosy pink faces
As if all those things
could have destroyed a blooming rose
-Saschia Johnson
