The roses were white when I first planted them. White as snow. When the wind blew the gate open and their petals fluttered madly, they looked like snow.
They were beautiful, but not extraordinary. At first.
The youth who sold them me, a gangly young man with sage-green eyes and a smile as warm as embers, told me they were anything but ordinary. "Just water them once a day for maximum colour. And a little love never hurts." Then he offered me a cup of darjeeling before I left.
They grew as tall as my window sill, and at night I watched the moonlight turn them blue. the next morning, when I went to water them, they were blue, as though they drank they drank the sky.
After sunset, they were soaked in a colour like fire.
After a thunderstorm, they were the pale purple of a forked tongue of lightning.
On one hot night, when the smell of roses wafted through my window and drew me into the garden, they pulled from me tears. I cried as I have not cried in months. Over the rose garden.
My tears spread like a stain and the roses turned sage-green.
The next morning, the green-eyed man appeared at my gate, with a smile and a fresh cup of darjeeling.
"I told you they just needed some love," he said, handing me my tea.
Art by Alphonse Mucha
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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