The Rose Cutters

In the end, it’s the clip of the crop
Sheared scissor-like in a metallic beak
Snatched away by long denim hands
Laid to rest in a ten-gallon bucket
Sloshing dazed and half alive
Your head just above water
Bobbing with your sisters
Like shipwrecked ladies at seas
Billowing in their petticoats
Full round heads red looking for a savior

But a rose in her element
Never thinks about the end.

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