Love For December Roses

That sense of delight, of wonder, of joy,

I spot them out of the corner of my eye, chilly winter pale across our ranch style neighborhood, then bright bursts of color as we turn the corner toward home.

Canary yellow, deep scarlet, flamingo pink, a shade of pink I want to call baby’s cheek.

They sprout from the tips of the thorniest out stretched arms of the ancient plants of my 1950’s house. Who planted them? The bottoms of the bushes look like reptile skin. How could something so rough and desert -like produce the most delicate soft balls of scent and surprise?

My memories stretch far back to an old house, crumbling at the edges, held together with duck tape and vines by the name of Terra Down. I awoke on a June morning to dew kissed peach roses tickling my nose. It was the perfect way to be woken to a new year in my early 20’s. This was a dear friend’s surprise, waking me to the world with the romantic, spicy scent of roses.  

Roses belong in June, in my birthday month. I am forever imprinted with this knowledge and memory. Yet, here it is, the bleak brown and white of December, gray is as solid as the air and then, them…

I laugh aloud as I cut the open blossoms to decorate my winter table.  A neighbor walks by with his dog, hears me giggle. I hold up the glass jar filled with blossoms and we both chuckle at the spectacle, the crazy reality of weird Oklahoma winters, the climate change that might have brought about these curiosities. Yet I can’t help but smile at the rare beauty, the mystery and marvel of roses in December.