I knew I didn’t need another needy rose. But I kept coming back to that single bloom.
The bush had terrible form.
I kept walking away. That color, that shape, that blush of pink and peach, those tight petals.
I put it in my basket. Lord help me. Another rose.
It did not bloom the following year.
I babied it. Trimmed it. Fenced it in.
The next year it grew. The stems were thinner than I remembered.
This year it has buds, but they are too small, too numerous.
Today a bud showed its color. RED!
How did this happen, you ask?
The lovely Gruss An Aachen scion died and the weedy rootstock survived.
I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.