As a rose keep, I was an utter failure.
The bleating lambs called to me,
but I denied their need for fertile soil.
Tomorrow seemed soon enough
to prune dead growth and search
for black leaf. Let them frolic
in their own freedom, I thought,
leggy stems reaching to the sky.
Their thorns like cracked hooves
were such a bother, a rancorous
manifestation I took personally.
My heart wasn't right for it,
this shepherding that involved
soaker hoses, mulching roots.
Let the wolves come. I napped
peacefully beneath the oak.