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?

Grafting.

The lovely Gruss An Aachen scion died and the weedy rootstock survived.

I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.

FLOWER