Summer is most of a month away but the wild roses on the beach are in fresh, full flower, red, pink and white. A few years ago I wrote this prose=y sort of poem about them.
Well able the wave-washed ribbon of sand, among the tough dune grasses but before the hearty shoreline trees, thorny wild roses spread low. Their meager diet comes from what soil lines within and beneath the drifting dune. The salty sea winds have forced the roses to flatten their tangles like a scouring pad, impenetrable except to small flying or crawling creatures. In August their fat, red hips are storage vats for vitamin C for the few who use them for tea. Amid the dangerous bramble the plenteous hips glow like glass balls hung on Christmas trees, festive and not so fragile, the shell-hard skin is polished by the wind blown sand to a gilded crimson -- choruses of hallelujahs.
The mid-70s are a surprise! Part of me remains in the 50s -- age, I mean, not decade of 20th century. It's a joy ride, new experiences land in my lap and I've become a better quilter, poet, writer than I expected. It's a rich life for a person never rich financially. Hey, this is what the mid-70s are like!