She worked all her life to be able to retire
She kept a small garden where she could relax
There she would tend to her roses.

She watered and fed them
She trimmed them when needed
She kept cross-fertilizing in hope.

The roses were all beautiful when in bloom
Red ones and white, yellow and orange
They grew in profusion for her.

She passed away quiet on a sunny Sunday morn
And as she lay in rest her friends all brought 
Her roses to lay gently on her chest.

But the one perfect rose that she wanted 
Was growing in her garden all alone
Waiting on her return.