[Excerpt from a children's book]
In the verdant green, kneeling quietly,Rosalind and her basket attended a gathering of Crown Roses.
Rosalind bent, caressing one of the roses,And she brought the shears from behind her back,Where they were hidden, as if they might spook the flowers.It was but a small thing to take a life for her mother.
As she brought the shears around, she pulled at a stem,Readying it for the blades,But the flower did not comply,And rewarded her trust with a thorn, buried in her thumb.
A single drop of crimson welled up from the wound.Before Rosalind could bring her thumb to her lips,a hand closed around her wrist.Her mother was standing nearby, witness to all that had transpired.
"The rose demands its price, my love. Do not deny the flower its toll."Rosalind winced as her mother forced her hand out of the flower bed,And gently squeezed her thumb.Three drops spattered onto the dry soil.
As her mother walked away, Rosalind blinked away tears,And gripped tight her shears.
She left the garden with her basket brimming.Three crimson drops and one crimson flower,All that remained of the once proud garden.