The rose had come a few weeks back, packed carefully in a box in order to survive the transit from there to here. I'd unpacked it, watered it, watched it leaf out and the first bud form. I never intended for it to wait so long in its pot, placed at the edge of the vegetable garden where it could catch the spray from the sprinkler every morning and late afternoon.
No matter. This morning was its morning.
I took to the bed with a shovel, mixing compost, potting soil, and Rose Tone into the newly-dug hole, a veritible feast for a newly-planted rose. Of course there were the usual furry helpers around offering (ahem) expertise, and when a man I know walked out of the house and headed my way carrying a mug of coffee in each hand, I set the shovel aside and sat on the bench by the creek with him and sipped my coffee and talked about how important it is to slow down enough to do just this.
The rose is called New Dawn, a climber with flowers of palest pink, the very thing that daydreams of old stone houses with paned windows and shutters and long lost lovers are made of. Romance that makes your breath catch and your heart flutter just a bit. Here, it found its home against our old shed wall, there at the edge of the flagstone patio with the long wooden picnic table. If this is any indication, it won't take long for it to drape the weathered wood and spill abundant blooms.
Let me do this. Let me take what few minutes I have in an early morning, let me dig and amend the soil, let me drink coffee with my love, let me plant a rose.