Rose in That Garden

I, fertile and rich,
Have all but a rose.
My fruits are plenty, and yet
I crave, still, your bloom,
Dark and beautiful,
Your stems are thick;
Roots, deep from another garden
Taunt me into a despoiled desert.
A sweet smell of pungent
Nectar wafts through my memory
On an unsettled and capricious wind;
I dream of a petal, even one dried,
Discarded in airs,
To fall onto my dirt.
My waking hours are imposed;
My fruits, abandoned.
I do not call to you, Rose,
For I, sensitive to your thorns,
Know that you are rooted.
And I unbearably graze your leaf.