Roses have their beauty and their wiles

Grass and daisies have no  spikes nor thorns

So we can run barefoot on the lawn.

So why do roses hurt  our hands forlorn

When sheep don’t hurt the shepherd when they’re shorn?

We could cut down the roses in our rage.

Their own aggression might bring down their death.

Yet beauty in their form does love engage.

So we ignore their useless, painful wrath.

Recklessly we love a spiky friend,

Enchanted by their learning or their face

But wounds unneeded bring this to an end.

Patience thins , we sever this embrace.

Roses have a beauty that beguiles.

Yet do they need to harm us with their wiles?