Grass and daisies have no spikes nor thorns
So we can run barefoot across the lawns.
Why do roses hurt our hands, forlorn,
When sheep don’t hurt the shepherd as they’re shorn?
We could cut down 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.
Must we then endure their thorns and wiles?
How my heart sings 