The Rose at Noon yarn I twist through roots and

I twist through roots and moss

a reflection of autumn’s embrace and the shimmer of dawn’s first light

He wipes his hands on his coat

but in remembrance: of those who found divinity in the margins

Even indoors

The Rose at Noon yarn I twist through roots andThe garden wasnt left to grow wild, not here. Beds were kept in order, paths cleared, stems cut back before they could tangle into each other. Roses were watched closely not for beauty, but for timing. Too early and they wouldnt hold. Too late and theyd fall apart the moment they were touched. Now, she said, handing over the shears. He hesitated just long enough to make it obvious. Youll miss it, she added. The cut was clean, just below the node. The