From where I sit, life is beautiful. Here in my garden, just slightly too warm, birds singing, sun shining through sections of big, puffy clouds, and the scent of flowers, roses, mostly, settling over my skin like a veil.
Quiet, quiet, except for those always busy, always happy birds, singing praises of a life I can only imagine, with wings being necessary for flight and all… There are roses everywhere I look, hanging low and luscious even as they act as disguise for the mess beneath them, behind them, around them.
My garden is a jumbled, tangled jungle — and will stay this way for another year, surely. I mind, but so it is — unable to do anything about it, I shall strive to embrace the chaos. Given time, I think I could become quite good at that, although I suppose that inevitably, it will all fall from my arms.
But these white roses, right here in front of me, all still and perfect and prolific in their charm, well, they already knew that.
From where I sit, life is beautiful.
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