Our rose bushes are blooming, unafraid, on their own. Not even birds can deny the depths of them. They are like mini trees. Evergreen and erect. A perfect combination of lush and sublime. Their leaves are perfect. Carved into an angle that say so little of how glorious they are. The folds of each rose fall neatly in ways that keep me humble. Everything about them, the stories they never tell, are perfect, forcing me to rise, erect, evergreen, like a rose.