I get roses on my rose bushes until mid-October. In about a week, they are all gone for the season.
Every year, right about this time, one more rose blooms. It's the most colorful and beautiful one of all. When I see it, I know I really can't put off the upcoming season.
I know the red rose's hours and minutes are very limited now. And I dread seeing her in her death throes.
I loathe the Fall season. There are only dark days and cold ahead as far as the eye can see. Nature gives her most breathtaking beauty display at this time, so we can watch it all wither and die. The riot of gold, purple, and red leaves land on the ground leaving the trees bare and ugly until the Spring.
Fall is like Sundays. I have always hated Sundays too.
I love Spring because it's such a time of promise. And I love Fridays too. I guess I love the anticipation of a weekend even more than I love the weekend. And I love the anticipation of Summer much more than I love the season.
Come the end of March, I will have blooms again everywhere. And the roses will produce their pretty flowers. They will look lovely, but the flowers will never measure up to this last rose.
