Rose and panties

Not much time. The chemical restraints are tightening, the floors and walls are doing a slo-mo undulation. Light and dark are trading costumes. And everybody’s cool. There’s a tiny Philharmonic Orchestra playing just under the hum and whoosh of the A/C and the computer fans. You can’t hear it unless you listen carefully, and focus on it.

The roses, a few, are in full bloom; several hanging very near the ground, and an occasional one about midway on the bush. None on the tops of the bushes are blooming, but everywhere are dozens of splitting buds. Nearby, the rhododendron stands embarrassed by the youth of the roses, its own lacy pink garments lying torn and soiled on the ground beneath it, like delicate silk panties at a rape scene.

I have to get up early to start capturing these once-a-year beauties which will only bloom this week, and then they’ll be gone.