I love roses. Right now, all my rosebushes are blooming. The roses that grow on my terrace, came with the house and to begin with, I wanted to get rid of them. Not because they were not beautiful or difficult to care for, but because they were (and still are) every year attacked by some sort of bug. I have tried everything to fight this pest, all kinds of chemicals available on the market, but nothing helps. It is nothing visible, the only thing I see is flowers and leaves that become ragged on the edges, as if eaten. Someone told me recently, that it is indeed some sort of vermin that lives in the ground and comes up in the night to feast on the beautiful plant and there is nothing one can do about it. Short of getting rid of the rose.
Today I have accepted that I have only a short time each year to lavish in the beauty of the roses. This incredibly resilient plant is as beautiful and fragile, as it is strong and dangerous, with all its thorns. It blooms almost all year around; the top picture depicts flowers that I picked one year in early December.
I admire the rose and I would love to resemble it; lovely to look at, but dangerous to the touch. A treat for the eyes, yet to be approached with care. So strong, coming back each year with stunning beauty. Bringing happiness to anyone who gazes at it, signifying love and ethereal beauty.
If I had to pick one flower or plant that I resemble, it is definitely not a rose. At the best I am an orchid; I am sensitive and require a lot of care, attention and love. I pose no threat to anyone; what you see is what you get. And I will only thrive if cared for properly; if ignored or neglected, I will die.
But I would much rather be a rose.