To my dearest mother

My mother is a hidden rose bush,

Kept behind shabby old Pickett fences,

For if her beauty Leaked the others would blush

I'm sure the bees have not been the same since,

The gardens very own secret to keep,

A kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate day,

The old willow trees have no longer weeped,

Like an old crush that's best hidden away,

Beauty is only skin deep, but not hers,

The sun seems so dull next to her beauty,

Her petals would make the sailors not curse,

(and her daughter is also a cutie),

The love of a rose is everlasting,

The beauty of one is so enchanting.