I’ve been growing roses for decades. Nothing fancy. Usually the castoff from someone else’s tired garden or the clearance section or someone claims, “This rose is dead. Do you want it?”
It’s not dead. It’s alive and well yet presently dormant.
I’m a bit like a rose. Nothing fancy. I’ve been rejected. Haven’t we all? I’m definitely tired and sometimes things can feel rather ‘dead.’ However I’m alive and well and often need my dormancy.
I listen to the roses in my garden. Some carry rosehips of beauty. Others are upright and sharp. Some are heirloom and others, carefree. Poignant spots of colorful celebration scattered between the lavender, phlox and whatnot. Today I’m a rose in a pre-spring interlude. There’s tenderly emerging leaves of growth. My soul’s cane is etched in mahogany and my shadowy branches tap the windows of my verdant mind. The moon highlights and the sun warms. The trellis of quiet is an essential anchor as a rose’s unfolding is timeless.