Pathways and Prose

The rose garden outside of my home was planted at my birth. At first I hardly regarded it, seeing it as only another bush, another flower, belonging to the property. But as I grew, so did it. What was once small and hidden became unkempt and gangly, reaching ever higher. However, despite its maturity, the roses never bloomed. They mocked the rest of the garden from their mount, as well as any travellers who dared to gaze their way.  The other flowers weren’t roses like them I suppose. Yet even then, I’d walk up to the roses on a few separate occasions and they would hardly deign to look my way. I decided I did not like the roses. The bushes would claw at your body as you passed. They claimed the land, and your clothing, becoming knotted and rotted and festered with many lost things. The roses began to choke out any other flowers attempting to settle in its territory, offering  no purchase, and allowing for no innocent bystanders. They continued to grow taller even as their tru...

  I hike mountains. I travel to them in the early mornings with the sun. These journeys are beyond me but I get to hold them while I’m there.