Perfect Roses

Just outside the south side of our building there is a small rose bush. The first time I saw it, I thought perhaps it was newly planted, a young plant that had yet to bear any roses. It doesn't get a lot of sun, being tucked under the shade of a cluster of four tall elm trees.

How surprised I was to see the first bud develop! One lone branch shot up tall, and at the tip a tiny peach blushed bud nodded unconcernedly in the gentle breeze. Over the course of several days, the bud grew and opened and opened and opened until I beheld the most perfect and full rose I had seen in some time.

The edges were lined with a deep ruby while the main petals were a bright peach color fading to a creamy yellow in the center. There were so many petals I thought the flower would bend the stalk clear to the ground. Even the fragrance was light, barely perceptible, a joy to encounter.

I was blessed by its quiet beauty for almost a week before it withered and dropped petals to the brown earth below. How surprised I was to see another shoot grow tall and repeat the process, producing a perfect, beautiful, fully-opened rose. Once again I was blessed by the beauty, the gentle fragrance, the vibrant colors, the peace.

Four more times the tiny bush, obviously neither new nor inexperienced, blessed me with a gorgeous rose. I was grateful that no one succumbed to the urge to pluck the flower and imprison it in their private quarters, but left it for the world to enjoy. Each flower, while unique, bore wonderful resemblance to the others. I thought after six roses, the little bush had outdone itself and was finished for the season.

Today, as Sugar and I stepped off the front stoop, there was yet another shoot with a new bud promising another beautiful rose. Maybe I should learn from this unassuming rosebush. Do one thing. Do it well. Do it often. Bless the world.