song of the wild orchid

See how the flowers of the field grow.  They do not labour or spin. Yet I tell you that  
not even Solomon in all his splendour was dressed like one of these.  Matt. 6:28b, 29 (NIV)

no garden have i with a fancy wall;
no dizzying heights, the rose, from which to fall.
she knows the tender touch of caring hands;
out in the cold, swift storms i must withstand.
 
no pruning shear has ever stroked my back,
nor have i self-defense from weed attack;
she shelters in the bosom of cool shades,
well-manicured by constant accolades.
 
how delicate the dimple of her blush,
as quickly to her charms rose reapers rush
to strangle her for sprays and boutonnieres,
while flagrant solitude consumes me here!
 
what care i lack from bubble baths and wines
and daintiness for which a home rose pines,
my freedom drinks beyond the garden wall
where, slave to none, i dread no sudden fall.
 
her song bleeds dark and bitter on the night.
forsooth, i cannot save her from her plight:
where thorns are powerless to ransom her,
wild songs give me safe distance from such stir.
 
© Copyright 2019 May 09
by Clyve A. Bowen♫