December rose, suspended from its arching branch just above the center of my garden path. God put it there. I can’t define God for you. When I was little, I never had a garden. The best thing was the lilac bush in back yard of the yellow house on Hanway Street. I hid under that bush whenever I could, but only for a year, because then we moved. Sometimes I picked flowers from other people’s gardens. I couldn’t help it. But this rose, I planted myself. My horticulturist neighbor said, No way, will never thrive, not enough sun. But here it still is, almost two decades later, winning hard in December. I chose it on purpose for its type: hardy shrub rose. This flower can hold up to some deprivation and abuse. Now it hovers in suspense, clinging or effortless I cannot tell, as it fades delicately into this new season, all the lovelier for its incongruity.
~Upcoming Retreats and Classes~
Write for Your Life Memoir Intensive January 16-18
Square One: Winter/Spring Salon January 22- April 30 (alternate Thursdays)
Ugly, Beautiful: Winter/Spring Salon January 29- May 7 (alternate Thursdays)
Summer Solstice Writing & Yoga Retreat at Stout's Island