I’m behind on my spring cleaning; already I know my summer plans are way too ambitious. Still I’m feeling as gay as a character in a Broadway musical. That’s because my roses are in bloom, a sunny choreography of lavender, burgundy, coral, pink, and cream. Their names are like treasures from afar: Pearl Essence, Moon Shadow, Angel Face, Double Delight. Even the solitary Ole beside the garage shouts when I drive up, “Dance a little!” Mornings I bring my books and journal into the middle of it all, but can hardly write or read. My 401K has shrunk to nothing. I can’t afford college for my son. Still, around my roses, I recall the lines from a Mary Oliver poem: In this world I am as rich / as I need to be.
June’s Full Moon has long been called the “Rose Moon”–for obvious reasons.