There is a man
He lives in a garden
He lives in a garden with a variety of flowers
That have yet to bloom, but just as appealing
You see him eyeing these so tender and fresh
He stalks their silky petals
He envisions their branches entwined within his hands
Longing to pluck them
Seeing their fresh roots
A trickle of dirt managing to barely escape his clutch


No such flowers are as fresh
And he chooses only their pureness
One smirk opens a mound of crime
One pluck and then another
He has not but finished yet
Two plucks, three and then more
He gathers them in his arms
A new bouquet, as beautiful as the hands that offer this bounty
And slowly he gathers them with a silk red ribbon


Together they will remain as the children of the garden
And the moon appears once again
And the seeds are planted once again
And the ribbons are tied once again