Sense Sonnet - Acher

 Picked Not

Upon the same bush we all grew,

Red roses all, my buds and I.

When all of us be picked, we knew

We would provide a fresh supply

Of a fine gift to be received

In a well known gesture of love.

Such destiny, we all believed,

And looked forward to coming of

Gardener hands removing us from

Our bush, which did happen one day,

A happening, very welcome,

As one by one bud went their way.

My buds all picked, but I'm left jilted.

Alone in my sadness, I wilted.