How do they do it, I wonder. . . There is brilliant warming sunlight now and then, but October is gray and chilly for the most part, heavy cloud over everything, rain lasting for days at a time, cold inky nights from here to there.
The north wind sweeps through the village touching everything with its icy fingers, but somehow or other, our roses carry on blooming, and they paint our fading garden with their delicately tinted complexions. The place feels like a cloister or a monastery enclosure, even in late autumn.
Mirabile dictu, I counted eleven rosebuds in our garden yesterday afternoon. October's roses are not (of course) as large or as fragrant as their summer sisters, but the small and hopeful forms are marvels, and they are flawless in their own perfectly natural way. They are potent reminders that there is wild and elemental grace in every season, that one can carry on and bloom wherever, whenever and however she is planted, whether she remembers it or not.
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