Last year's last rose of Summer holds on for its life,
March's wind's no murmur as it blows with all its might.
Nearby, in leafy splendour, a bush decks out in green,
the primary contender to set the Summer scene.
While the garden has adjourned, it's not been unadorned,
both plants are roses, taking turns, as each new season's born.
Some years they are resplendent and flat refuse to go,
it's not weather dependent, they've often bloomed in snow.
I like that I can never tell, it's like they can decide.
In good years I take the credit, in bad I blame the clime.
