What bud for thee might I produce,
Vermilion satin, ultra smooth,
That you might hold what's introduced,
Then place in vase, your favorite used.

What filling fruit on rising stem,
Might I induce for stratagem,
To ease your ready appetite,
This plumped appeal within your sight.

How veined the vine, all flow with sap,
That fills the bud, that fills the gap,
For favorite vase, or lips at face,
It's beauty might your yearn erase.

What flower vase might give it space,
Appropriate for such it's grace,
This bud so splendid, full upended,
Above the garden, poised suspended.

This much refined boquet of one,
Whose fruited stem bears supple plum,
Behold this treasured garden prize, 
Grown swift on steady sturdy rise.