The Boy And The Crimson Roses Poem by Peter Vector

The boy,
Was born to no one.
He was found by a caring man.
A gardener's son he was to be,

And so he was reared and taught and loved.
All was well with the world and life,
But one day he found in a bed of red roses.
His fathers body cold on the soil.

Tears glistened down his eyes,
Like dew on a fresh flower in the morning.
He wept and wept,
Yet he knew his father would never return.

So with a shovel he dug a grave fit for the one,
That showed him life, laughter, and love.
So he buried his father and put a rose on the mound.
Remembering the man, his father,

And so he was set to be just like him,
To garden and grow flowers and herbs alike.
As best as his father had taught him,
For his father, he would live.

The years grew on,
And his knowledge grew as well.
He could grow anything at anytime in any place,
A master he was a the botanist's trade.

Yet, there was one thing he could never make live.
No matter how hard his efforts.
He could never once get crimson rose to survive.

So one day he went into an open field,
To watch the roses grow.
He sat and waited for the roses to bloom.
While he waited, he thought of his father.

Suddenly a thought struck him.
Why was it his father was dead in the roses?
Only he had questioned it to late,
For the wind rose up and the pollen spread.

These were no normal roses,
Their pollen caused any living thing to die.
Not only to protect the roses,
But to make the soil fertile as well.

He inhaled and slowly dropped to the ground,
And there he lay in the roses.
The wind again picked up,
And blew around the petals,
Covering him where he lay.
Dead but, at peace, like his father.