My mother raised roses in lovely hues:
soft peach, pale yellow, and deep scarlet;
each properly pruned and sweetly scented.
I admired her backyard bushes in bloom,
squirmed under her careful cultivation as
she pruned flaws and nurtured character
I was of different seed by birth but
mom raised me like her own heirloom,
watered with tender attention until
Transplanted to Iowa and grafted to a farmer,
I find myself blooming like a wild prairie rose;
delicately fragrant yet proven to be hardy.
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