“poem about a printed rose bush”

In Grandma’s garden, by the fence,  
A rose bush stands—in past and sense  
It seems to blossom, bloom, and blush,  
Yet all its flowers are ink and brush.  

No fragrance wafts upon the air,  
No velvet petals nestled there,  
For every stem, each leaf and thorn,  
Was on a page one morning born.  

The printer’s hum, mechanical and low,  
Spun tales of roses, row by row,  
With crimson splatters, emerald hue,  
Pressed sharply on the paper, true.  

Though roots found soil not in clay,  
And dew could never cool the day,  
A printed rose bush—fragile, bright—  
Still gathers sunlight in delight.  

Children trail their fingers round  
The paper blossoms, soft and sound,  
Marveling how lifelike art can be—  
A garden grown from memory.  

No bees will land, no beetle slide,  
No breeze will sway it side to side,  
But in its stillness, quietly posed,  
The beauty of a rose bush grows.

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