Toiling, as was said he’d be.
This master working, quiet;
No sound except for me.
“Master, please,” I bade him
As he knelt there looking wise.
“Tell me the secret of Roses,
And how one can grow a prize”
“Prize Roses are not grown,” He said,
“They must be nurtured, clipped and trained.
Many corrections must be made,
To be pleased with what remains.”
“You must grip it firm, but gentle
And be careful of her defenses.
True prizes aren’t just sights
But satisfy all your senses.”
“This Rose of mine, though beautiful,
Is still not quite refined.
Next comes the step, the truth,
The secret you had in mind.”
“I wipe my brow to coat my hand
With sweat that is my own,
Then grip this rose to point of pain,
Near the base from whence it’s grown.”
“My sweat and blood, they mingle,
Then flow beneath the soil,
My blood, my life, my essence,
Becomes one with this, my toil.”
“You give the gift, yourself to her,
The Rose, she understands,
The training…no longer discipline,
As the love flows from your hands.”
What you give…received ten fold;
I saw that in his eyes,
And understood with love and care,
Any Rose becomes a prize.
