The rose tree is my favorite feature of my property. Last year I wrote about it, how old, old rose vines have climbed their way up a tree, perhaps a cherry or a dogwood, and in Spring the roses bloom and the whole tree is full of hot pink flowers, and the perfume they put off is thick in the air.
It’s natural Zen, something made that usually isn’t. Though it couldn’t be anything but what it is, the rose tree, two stories high, blooming with color and fragrance and peace.
There’s good, simple good in the world, simple beauties evolving over years, like a young rose vine that decades ago inched up a tree trunk and inched and bloomed and inched and bloomed for years, so many years before I moved to Long Island and got in the habit of looking forward to spring so I could empty my head under the rose tree. …
This year I’ve snapped more photos with a new camera. But click here to see the photos from last year.
