Last weekend I was strolling,
through the Indian Summer's garden,
when I chanced upon a singular rose.
It had bloomed from a thorn patch,
which had been barren for so long
as memory would so care to serve.
I walked over to admire it,
perchance to take a whiff of its sweet perfume,
and decided to try to take it as my own.
But as I snapped its fragile stem,
all its petals fell away, gone away, swept away by the wind,
and I knew in my heart I had destroyed something
beautiful.