Thoughts while pruning roses against the fence:
I'm trying to remember why on Earth I ever planted these roses on this side fence. Here I stand, attempting to dead-head, removing the last flush of bloom this one rose (actually large green rose hips) and trying to think of a good reason to sacrifice my flesh in the pursuit of ornamental horticulture. Was it the promise of large, silvery white blossoms glistening in the sun after a dark during a dismal rainy winter? Or was it the promise of bragging about the sheer mass of dark green leaves hidden among blossoms? Or did I just fall prey to flower catalog "madness "as I and others do each winter and early spring?
At this time, bloodied and with even more tears in a favorite gardening shirt -- all shirts seem to end up as marked for gardening after the first tears and stains-- I'm convinced that this large, overgrown rambler (Rosa 'Silver Moon') hates me to touch it! It's proud that it grew 20 feet this year -- again, and wants no loving sniping from me, just admiration for another year of blooming and growing! I know I'll heal again just as I have in the past. Darn that "prickle-bush" as Bruce calls it!! It knows as do the other rambling roses in my yard that I adore them and will continue to risk flesh and clothing to make them look their best. I'm trapped in my backyard and I can't stop sniping!
