Roses

The figures of stone watch over us with vigilance.

The songbirds sing our praises in their molto vivace.

The wildflowers form a carpet underneath our feet.

The golden beams of sun form a spotlight above us.

The trees, standing tall, cast shadows on our idle cares.

The roses give us warning that, along with the shrubbery, love grows here.

Are the roses correct in their prediction

That someday, we shall walk this path arm in arm?

Or am I doomed

To wander these gardens alone?