Morning in the Garden

I do violence to the roses, victims of their own success. I dig and chop  at the roots and pull at the branches. They strike back, pricking me with thorns, scratching my arms; in the end I win. I move them to more suitable spaces. The rose vine is now next to the tired wooden fence able to spread its tendrils along the top. The red knock-out rose is now behind the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, partially shaded from the harsh summer sun to come. With a generous drink of water, I hope they do well in their new spots.


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