Little Rose

It was "Field Day" at the younger daughter's school today. It was late in the day when she showed me the rose tattoo. A little something she got for the occasion.

The temporary tat suits her. Rose is her middle name, which is reason enough. And too, she is lovely as one.  She is also quite resilient.

The other day, I was in the garden trimming the rose bushes.  One bush, that blooms deep red, had gone leggy and flowerless, as it is normally known to do this time of year.  It is most likely meant to climb.  The other bush grows much too close to the climber.  It is my daughter's rose.  She chose it for it's lovely coral-pink hue.  I worry for that bush, so I often trim back the larger one's tendrils to give it room to breathe.  And breathe it does.  It is a frequent bloomer.  Right now it is covered in blooms.

To be sure, trimming roses takes a bit of care.  In my haste, I'd brushed my bare arm against a stem. A fair thorn stuck itself in the flesh.  A touch painful, yes.  A bruise appeared a day or so after the incident.  My reminder not to be taken in by the light sweet fragrance, dismissing the strength underneath soft petals.

There is more I'd care to write about on this night, though my eyes are daring to shut.

Until next time then...~~~<<3