We purchased this rose almost a decade ago. In my memory of that day, the rose’s label reads “Fireworks”.
Last year, during an early attempt at blogging, I tried to find an online reference for fireworks roses. None existed. Turns out, our fireworks rose is a climbing Fourth of July rose.
What trick of memory switched the labels in my mind? And what of all my other memories? Are they equally flawed?
Our dog telegraphs her every emotion, announcing her moods with a range of vocal cues, facial expressions, and overly-dramatic body language. The cats are usually harder to read.
Usually, but not always. Here, for example, the message is clear: “Don’t bother me, I’m mad at you…”
Publication note: My poem “Waking” appears in the new issue of Willows Wept Review. The issue is available in print (by order) or as a free digital download.
Here in the mid-Atlantic, the heat wave has spawned severe thunderstorms two nights in a row. Last night, the lightning was so spectacular that I couldn’t resist trying to catch a few frames.
(This last one convinced me that I had taken more than enough pictures…)
This little Eastern Amberwing dragonfly doesn’t seem to mind the heat, which has me cowering in my air-conditioned office.
I tend to procrastinate, so today is the kind of day I dread. I’m trapped indoors, face to face with a heap of unfinished manuscript submissions and bookkeeping chores. Of course, I could always read a book. Or take a nap. Or both…
The lotus garden near Sandbridge Beach is beginning to bloom. Today I stopped for a few minutes, trying to ignore the ridiculous heat and harsh midday glare.
Rae Spencer 