Before The First Frost 11/17/08 The rose bush produced one final beauty, fighting against time. I cut it. Brazenly, with a scissors from the desk. Tiny thorns tried to fight back, and its thin stem maintained a defiant posture. What makes a rose still want grow in November? Do roses fear dying? It was standing tall, proud, alone, still spunky from summer, maybe a teenager, peachy, against crisp brown, smelling of citrus and attar. It missed curfew; it mocked the season. It’s supposed to get quite cold on Wednesday, the first frost: I scurried around bringing in what I could. … Continue reading →