A white rose that I know I didn’t plant
emerged outside my kitchen recently.
I don’t choose roses – me they don’t enchant,
though I regard this garden decently.
I’m not a fan of foliage like theirs,
and I’d prefer to live without the thorns,
but someone sowed and saw to budding cares
and I’ve allowed them space. So pink adorns
the window edge, and yellow decks the walk,
while ruby red unfolds in middle ground.
Now I don’t know from whence appeared the stalk
that blossoms white, bouquet-like, but I’m bound
to treat it like its sisters, watered, well,
and thank it for enhancing where I dwell.

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