In the garden of red bright roses ad infinitum
how that ugly yellow marigold could accost the bees!
But you can’t neglect the acrid smell of hybridization
and of course! The thorns. Painful and hateful.
Yet the bees hover over them. The roses.
Lovers would choose to offer their beloved.
And decorations are just widowed without them.
Marigold couldn’t be the Rose.
The one without the hybrid smell.
Without thorns around. Easy to pluck.
Couldn’t be the exchange of lovers.
The sign of nothing. The marigold.
He plucked one and tied a ribbon.
Hurriedly bent down.
The garden was too muddy to kneel.
“Marry me! My Gold…”
Until someone found the easy way to love.
Now the bees wonder, “Rose can’t be Marigold.”
Individuality
the kadapul 