There's a bright green garden
At the East side of the woods
That bears the gentle scars
Of winters long withstood.
And every year it brightens
With more greens, more reds, more blues
Than the year before. The gardener
Coordinates the hues.
He'll take you to a rosebush
And show you buds and blooms
That display enchanting splendor
Or are ready to open soon.
His gentle care is evident
By the look upon his face,
And the clever arrangement
Of each flower in its place.
The young rosebuds catch one's eye
And lead the mind to wonder
At the timing of the blooms;
What sort of spell they're under.
The gardener smiles and explains
That each rosebud is unique
And will refuse to open
For just anyone who seeks.
"There's no beauty," he explains
"In a bud that's forced to open
Before its time; and no petals
Can be handed out like tokens
Without destroying the whole flower.
One must simply wait.
I promise not a single rose
Will ever bloom too late."
From his words I gather
That to open them too soon
Is to destroy the beauty
Of that first and only bloom.
And so I leave the gardener
To his wisdom and his plans.
It's nice to know the garden rests
Safely in his hands.
postscript
To whom this subject is near and dear to, and to Emily who reminds me to say one thing and mean another.