Half Full

 

Literally, my rose beds are half empty.  There is no place for them in the gallery of beautiful gardens.  The barren dirt reveals an ugly old soaker hose.  The remnants of dried up daffodil and iris stalks dot the little landscape. 

But I sit on my Nana’s old glider, coffee in hand, cat on my lap, and I look beyond all that.

The miniature roses I planted last year are spreading their sweet branches.  They were only tiny twigs when I took them out of their pint sized containers and put them in the ground.  Some of them are now four feet across and blanketed with precious petals in white and yellow.

So I don’t see the dirt.  I see the promise of one solid rosy carpet by summer’s end, the miracle of growth, the joy of hope.

I’m sorry for the ones that were traumatized by the ice and wind.  I’m especially sad for the one that gave up altogether, leaving a prominent gape for the others to fill in. 

It’s a good thing to own rose colored shades. May we wear some for a little while today, and may we delight in finding our rose beds half full.

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