The White Rose

The white rose
stands tall against the fence,
proud and arrogant
its beauty knows no bounds,
yet at its feet
the weeds have taken hold,
nipping at her proud
roots, for the goodness,
the rose silently withers.
Wearily I walk
tyne in hand, to give
a small reprive
to the white goddess,
earth turned over, I
remove the parasite beneath,
to again allow the beauty
competition from none,
her vanity still unshaken.