This pink rose was here when we moved to Pinehaven over 23 years ago and I know it's been moved a few times. Still it blooms ... exquisite simplicity ... year in, year out.
The flowering rose contains the whole of my philosophical ideal. Think of the chemical signals coursing through the tissue, this instruction cascading into the next, as DNA controls the nearly impossible mystery and does it time and time again. And the rose? In my heart I think the rose knows nothing of the bloom, just follows the steps written into its lineage, completing each before the next, eventually unfolding into impossible pink.
Is there anything more perfect than these petals? Does heaven and earth ever rise to more than this?
As I walked along the roses, lined behind our garage, I felt the warmth of the brick blanket my forehead as I leaned forward to take a few pictures. This one: perfection. As the picture opened on my computer screen, I almost gasped. Is it possible that another gray, cold winter has opened into this?
I am in equal awe that my heart beats.
