In a garden tamed by years of cropping and tweaking, roses stand out. But it is on the roadside that the rose is at it’s most powerful, singular, evocative and capable of taking you, alone, just by it’s presence, down another path: memory lane.
One is walking, until the scent is caught, briefly, quickly, delicately. Then the scent becomes dream, nostalgia and the rose appears, fragile like cherry blossoms, with paper-thin petals.
One warm summer I walked the Yorkshire Moors, in Brönte country, when even on sunny days the windswept atmosphere remains moody. And yet, within this dramatic emptiness the wild roses still held their own.
And their scent made me think of you. I decided I would open your petals for you, lotus, and open, too, your imagination, your senses. For you are, and were, beauty. Desire. You have been adored, admired, and your flame of love needed to be lit inside again, to let your flowerbud glow, in the warmth of spring. Awakened, aroused, touched by all that is the goodness of nature, blessed, just like you deserve and deserved to be.
in the deep wilderness
lightning strikes, petals quiver