Grandmother had a rose garden.
Crisp, crimson blossoms forever in bloom,
Strewn throughout her spacious lawn.

Grandmother was wealthy
They were cut, in their dampish primes
To decorate her lavish home.

Grandmother was wasteful.
They were pressed, when they began to wilt
Or thrown away, imperfect.

Grandmother was careless.
I once came upon a forgotten rose,
Wilted, purple, brittle, dry.

Grandmother was beautiful
As was the rose, which had turned an ashen violet,
And which promptly crumbled in my hands.