My mother loved roses

It made no difference the color or the heritage

Whether they climbed or grew in a bush

She carefully tended each plant

As if it was a child, a baby

Needing nurturing to grow.

She’d buy several new plants each season

Dig the holes and line them with mulch

The roots would be unbound, then settled.

I wanted to be her rose

To be carefully tended

Nurtured, like the child I once was

I didn’t need her to buy me anything

But I yearned for her to create places

For me to learn, love and grow

I wanted her love

Needed her love

And cried when she didn’t deliver.