A while back, Jo(e) wrote she was oddly fascinated by the end of the roses, the garden unravelling under the frost. We have only one rosebush and, for most of the summer, its branches sag with pink-white flowers.
By now, the roses should, by all rights, be gone. But if you stand where the tulips used to be, you can see where the pink-white rosebuds are still uncurling. Even with your hands in your pockets and a scarf knotted over your coat, you might be able to believe that you've miscounted the months and everything's starting all over again.