Repotted rose

It was Indian summer and I felt each snip of the shears  as if they were my fingers, not stems of that sweet-perfumed rose I would not see bloom again that year. Proud stubborn plant – it decided it would not be moved – simply refused – leaves drooped limp as wet laundry, then died. And so I cut it back. It is still dark in that spot but I remain undaunted by this reversal – rejuvenated in fact by the thought that – winter survived – I can still see myself alive come April  …that I will be there to watch it change its mind.



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