A flash of red. Not what you expect to see outside as the last of autumn fades a monotone brown into the frozen ground, deeper and deeper, in a quiet anticipation of the long winter to come.
This red is not a blossom, but the color of the leaves turning; the last song of the wild rose, shocking the mountain with her fiery bursts. Sudden, unexpected, and brilliant. A spark in the snow.
Indoors I plant a domestic rose. Awakening, she is called, and I chose her for the name. An old heirloom rose from Czechoslovakia, via Oregon, now here in the mountains with no chance of making it a winter outdoors. So inside we try. Within the comforts of the kitchen window, we will tend to her, water her, provide sunlight and soil and even temperatures and hopeful gazes. Nurture her tenderly and see if she will grow, see if she will grant us with fragrant blossoms, pink and fancy, delicate, so distant from her home, so different from the surrounding lands, forced here on this mountain by me, my desire for what I long for.