she morns for her Mother
who rests with the sheep perfectly perched
in the greenest of gardens
And then there is Papa
who seems to be tangled somewhere in the hedge
unable to admire the roses that float upon the weaving sea of green
the bees don't sting like the books define
the garden may have tried telling you so
but even then, Mothers mouth was always louder
whispers of the sun stay true
because for her compromise does not exist to be company
altering the Laws of Life you preached until convinction
that end up as empty in the manner they were introduced
woven together, still two seperate parts
comfort not from the tulips, but the Red Rose who calls help from the start.
-C.C.
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