I planted two roses this evening,
and they seem content enough
with their places in the garden.
Out of sight of one another,
so no cause for jealousy.
Each free to do its level best,
to reign supreme
among humble hydrangea
and pedestrian plumbago.
When spring at last returns,
each will throw itself skyward
in search of accolade,
insecure in the absence of blossom,
uncertain of its place.
Until there comes a day
both roses reach a height
where each comes in sight
of the other,
and in that moment
there will ensue a febrile rush,
to be first—taller, brighter,
more fragrant than the other.
Only we do not know their souls,
their foibles and insecurities.
We see only the outcome,
the wondrous outburst
born of envy and avarice,
but manifest in the very symbol
of love eternal.