The Garden
by Ironhand

Yes, it is true, in the garden I did not grow
But in the old hedge row

When all the others were picked and gone
I was over looked and weathered on

I’d often dream that I was too
you know, a gift, like lovers do

But I was there on the row
the marge of garden where no lovers go

Spring passed to summer and summer fall
and I thought once more, is this all?

If only I had not been on the hedge above
I’d been the gift of precious love

Air turned cooler, evenings cold
thoughts of lovers painfully old

Faded flower, life at its close
and what do you suppose?

I’d never die or fade away
nothing ever ends that way

But would you for a moment, just suppose….
had you picked me, I was once a crimson rose