I did not water my rose yesterday,
I was digging and raking soil.
This morning, as is a flower's way,
the petals had started to spoil.
I said sweet words, as I poured out
the contents of my watering can,
but the flower shrivelled from my spout
and away the water ran.
The rose it died at almost noon,
and my heart was so heavy and sad,
I pressed the flower by the light of the moon
to remember what I had.