Roses are red, violets are blue, some poems rhyme, but this one doesn't
Monday, July 10, 2006
Gregory Goyle sat in his mother’s garden on the bright sunny day. He had many happy memories in here while his mother was alive. He remembered very clearly being no taller then three feet high and playing hide and seek amongst the flowering bushes. His mother had loved this garden and she always had something beautiful and fragrant blooming. From magical blooms that only appeared in the dead of winter to vines where the blossoms glowed with firefly radiance at night.
He finished writing a small note before selecting a rose from his garden. It was an antique white color with a tint of pink at the ends of the petals. He wrapped his note around the rose, tied it with a ribbon, sealed it in wax and gave it to one of the family owls to deliver.
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