“can you make this rhyme; In Grandma’s garden, by the fence, A rose bush stands—in past and sense The printer’s hum, mechanical and low, Spun tales of roses, row by row,”

In Grandma’s garden, by the fence,  
A rose bush stands—in past and sense.  
Its petals blush with morning dew,  
A secret world each day renews.

Beyond the blooms, a sunbeam glows,  
Where childhood laughter softly flows,  
And in the shade, a memory springs—  
Of Grandma’s tales and bees with wings.

But indoors, at the wooden desk,  
A printer hums, precise, grotesque;  
Its inky ribbon, smooth and slow,  
Spins tales of roses, row by row.

Each paper thrust, a moment caught:  
A garden’s grace in words and thought,  
Yet none may match the blushing grace  
Of living roses, time and place.

So by the fence, I lean and dream  
Of roses, real and printed scheme—  
Old whispers ride the gentle air,  
And Grandma’s love is everywhere.

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