May I please, please, please pick the petals from your rose bushes? They tempt me with their luscious velvets reaching out between the white pickets. I don't even have to reach over, just a quick snip and they are mine!
But what if I am seen stealing your petals? Should I come under the cloak of darkness, when only the moon is watching, silently filling my basket with your offerings? Please, if I promise to make them into perfumes for your pulse points, or creams to beautify, or essences that fill the body with ecstasy, may I please, please, please pick your stems?
Yet I am uncertain who am I asking? The gardener or the flower?