I grew you two roses: first in my garden, and then in my studio.
I reached into this earth that we share, this muck that surrounds our home, and out of it i drew a rose, for you.
You dug me a hole, and i filled it with hopeful youth and dirt, and waited patiently and impatiently.
You bought me water and i grew you roses. You brought me food and I grew you roses. You nursed me when I was ill, and I grew you roses. You supported me when I could not stand, and I grew you roses.
I have nothing to offer but seeds and stones, leaves and bones. But you return every night and smell the sweet scent of our roses as though it is new.
I grew you three roses: first in my mind, then in my hands, and then in my heart.