The Miniature Rosebush

I took good care of it, I thought, but
it was just a prickly stick in the end.  I think
maybe it was never really meant
to thrive.
                I know it had one bud
when I bought it, blushing at the tip
with the kiss of tightly furled petals, the promise
of one perfect tender pink rose.  It never opened,
that bud, and withered right there where it was.
I think it fell off eventually, though some
of the leaves hung on, brittle and brown.

Death came slowly, as if there were something to fight for.
Surely one ought to have more to offer than this. . . .