Late winter. Late afternoon. Fading roses. There is something about that convergence that requires a backlit window, a few old books, and an empty pitcher to add to the romantic nostalgia.
I always want to take pictures of a rose bouquet at its end for some reason. A sort of final gesture of thanks for the brief pleasure it gave. A way to extend the rose conversation. There will be more in time. But I don't buy roses so often that I ever take them for granted. And I don't have an abundant supply even when a few bloom in the garden. (A long way off.)
The calendar will turn soon, and an unpredictable winter will pass along with it. An odd and uncertain winter, in odd and uncertain times.
More than ever we need the comfort of old roses and old books and old vessels. Not because we're sad or in pain (though some of us indeed are), but because beauty and wisdom always seem in such short supply. . . .
Beauty to you. . .
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