Roses are the caretakers of our calm

In that forest of futility which often

Grips us fiercely like a spider’s web

And the body guards of our soul have

Been tardy and have thrown it to the

Dustbin of dreary despair dragging its

Feet: roses might be breeding  around

In that school which teaches them the

Sacred creed of concern and caring to

Become the Caretakers of our calm

Doing their jobs diligently so we begin

To come out of the cramping casket

Of woe inside which the hatchet of

Harm hammers away at the heart to

Meet wisdom sitting in some tiny

Wayside  eatery at a bus stop and

To befriend it and share a jug of

Lemonade, where hope is the waiter

Who serves up the sweetest cream

And strawberry milk shake to order

And does not charge a penny for it

And only lets the heart beat of

Rhythm begin to sing once more