I have an antique rose;
She waits patiently for me.
When I draw nigh with pruning shears,
She utters not a plea.
Her thorny branches twine in knots,
They tangle by degrees.
Yet when I start to thin them out,
She neither fights nor flees.
She stands in proud defiance,
An indomitable foe;
It’s ne’er in doubt who will win out
Each pruning episode.
She submits to one dear Master,
And she pines to see his face.
Her roots may be on Broad Street,
But her heart’s at Christine Place.
Still, every spring I try my best:
I snip, and grapple, and grunt.
I’m the firstborn son of Ronald E. Pearce,
But that seems not to count for much.
My rose, she endures my poor pruning,
She suffers, and not only that—
Her crown looks like a haircut gone bad,
My arms, like I vaccinated a cat.
April 22, 2019