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He gave me a rose bush of my own when I was eight, a yellow rose of Texas, although we were not in Texas where the bluebonnets overtake spring fields, their azure splendor spiraling toward heaven to touch the angels teasing Earth with heavenly melody.
The yellow rose planted in rich loam, earthbound, a wee bud, thorns protecting juvenile innocence yet not shielded from the elements, spring’s soft showers, chill breezes, pounding summer rain and the hot stare of summer’s yellow eye. Blossoms beg relief, cool water from a hose, a bit of shade as I stand between their glory and the blistering orb. Bud to bloom, many buds to many blooms, mulched, fertilized, watered, bugs plucked from stems and leaves, tender hands preen, learning the craft.
He watches from a distance, afraid to touch the young bud kneeling as at an altar in priestly attendance to the gift. An ancient rite of worship, Earth’s incense rises teasing the angels with its siren song.
- Georgina Stockman-Clark BRIEFLY
