Long young rose branches, thin green stretching into its neighbor’s stand of wild honeysuckle, its reach delicate, invading through the leaves, brighter yet opens to void green dimpled from afar between orange stick petals, invading to claim spots in air, off sweet scent branches intertwined to the blooming bougainvillea end of the row where long thorns dagger off thicker dark forest strings interrupting paths of hungry honeysuckle veins, thinner smooth lime in poor light circulated amongst deep umber to verdant broad leaves with magenta fresh blood clots exploding; the season for these things, greyer clouds notwithstanding then young lined young by comparison rose branches showing their experience climbing through the three-shaded orchestration and traversing alive chaos, the flowers too young to bloom but this was discovered after sometime was spent pruning, in spite of miniscule thorns so intimate they grabbed into the ridges of my fingerprints.
Dawn was breaking.
