Early this spring, I planted a rosebush beside the back door, in some attempt to transform a little bit of our cedar-shingled house into a Red Rose imbued cottage. Gardening brilliance was wholly lacking. The rose bush has thrived, blossoming profusely, and yet again. In this poor Vermont soil–out of stone and sand and clay–deep glossy green emerges, rose hips fatten, tender petals perfume the air. In and out I go, sometimes all day, and this fragrance rises up to greet me.
He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they’re needful for the flower:
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
–– Sarah Flower Adams