By Tanya M. Bissonnette




The perfume of your blossom fills the air;
my aroma is pale in comparison.
You are pruned from a well cultivated bush,
grown with dignity and respect
while I have been lost for years in the field of weeds and wild flowers.
You were given a name for so many to love.
You are known as a cherished gift for others to only dream of.
I am cursed with a bad reputation.
Others wish to exterminate me from society.
They think I am a weed,
toxic to the precious garden.
Your roots are strong and deep;
my roots are choking with poison.
You will prosper on with an award winning prize and sunny bright skies.
I choke and die, leaving for me morbid sorrow.
Every Rose may have it's thorn
but I have only hope and one secret wish.
Can a Dandelion become a Rose?