In either case, no rose... Regret is the exchanging of an imperfect yet beautiful iris for the hope and gamble of a fresh nearly bursting rosebud that instead of flourishing beneath a kind hand, withers in the drought of distance. Regret is perhaps having gambled without full consideration of the iris or the fun house rose colored distorting nature of possibility. Regret is having neither rose nor iris, as winter’s dark armada arrays offshore, poised and looming.