Wild Rose Poem by Ima Ryma

We called her Rose, she lived hog wild
Near our farm in the bayou.
She looked as though she always smiled
When any of us happened to
See her be foraging around
Looking for tasty roots to eat.
Her snout digging into the ground
Until she came across that treat.
Year after year we did see her.
She must have been old, but who knows.
Rose was a lively gal for sure.
One day we found her dead, sweet Rose.

We found Rose dead on Groundhog Day.
Her time was up, a downed hog gray.