I planted roses this summer, a whimsy to me, for I am no gardener, despite my desperate longing to have a green thumb. Still, they grew, but only this week bloomed. To cup them in my hands, to hold their fragrance against me as soft as the tendrils of love, was perfection in a moment. It was joy, in simplicity, beauty opening to itself radiant in the sun. 

Listen

Connect

Join the email list!

Find Me