Rose Hips

She asked me for roses; I gave her rose hips
and said, “Here are roses as red as your lips
with perfume more sweeter than any you’ll smell
in expensive bottles brewed up by Chanel”.
But she didn’t want them. She threw them away.

Yet, where the seeds landed, they grew anyway,
into a bunch of bright, red beautiful blooms
with fragrance far sweeter than bottled perfumes;
as bright as the love that now would never be
because she refused to plant roses with me.