Bloom

Beside the stout portcullis grows
a barely open crimson rose
awaiting that one perfect nose.

Each day as folks commiserate
like cattle plodding through the gate
this lonely flower stays sedate,

for destiny will soon appear:
a suitor smiling ear to ear
to clip a dashing boutonniere,

perhaps a buxom maiden fair
will shyly pluck with tender care
a blossom for her flowing hair.

It happens to the most sublime
so many dreams, so little time
as blushing pride succumbs to rime.