An undeveloped rose plucked and dropped on loam

can glory in its fine smells, but will never know the bloom.

It does not feed insects that seek its pollen

or attract sensitive running tickling noses.

It remains and darkens the soil underneath mother's thorns.

Not until it sees others' bright petals scattered by playful swats

or dropped wilted and decayed on the ground,

the tree cut by scrupulous eyes,

and all decompose on ever-blackening and brightening soil,

does it sink with a final smile.