The trailing rose grew wild and forlorn.
It was a beautiful thing,
even when left to its own devises.
It grew up the side of the porch
with its crimson blossoms facing outward,
reaching to the sun.
It keeps growing,
being as tall, almost, as the roof
and as wide, almost, as the porch that supports it.
It has grown from nothing at all,
merely a stick, as I recall.
It was just a stick with three barely green leaves
when I planted it.
I had thought it to be dead or dying,
so I put it in the ground,
watered it only once,
and harshly left it alone.
I thought I should not fuss over it,
nor get myself attached,
as it would rot to the ground soon enough
and my labor would be wasted.
Yet day after day it lived on,
survived the winter uncovered,
survived my neglect
and even thrived
leaning against the porch rails
of my tattered house on the top of the hill.
It blooms from spring till early fall,
changes to red with new growth
and sleeps through the winter.
Each new year, it springs back to life,
offering buds to its god, the sun.
How much more strongly it might have grown,
how big and plentiful the blossoms might be,
if only I had tended to it well.
This is a thing I can never know.
And so it goes as well with my forsaken heart.
You took it, barely beating, from my chest
and planted it in a few kind words.
You watered it once with a touch from your rough hands,
then left it alone to wonder when you would return.
You did not notice as it grew,
helpless and unsure of itself,
in a world that is indifferent at best
to the struggle of an easily breakable thing.
You never looked as it shot upward
toward the sky,
offering its buds to you, its god.
I suppose I should be grateful
that you had tended once,
to this dying thing inside of me.
And yet, I cannot help but feel remorse somehow
that you gave it life and hope such as this.
I regret that you saved this dying vine
and then show no interest in its offerings of love.