My Oregon - 3 Orb of Gold
That first winter, a single rose survived through wind and rain. Frost rimed the ground and tinged the petals brown, but still the last bloom’s yellow sun quivered, round and perfect and pure, at the end of a forgotten stem that I’d failed to trim.
The base of the tree was a tangle of knotted wood, all the vines leading left, not right, as if something were blocking the way underneath. Something buried. Some secret nourishment that fed my secret rose.
I could have dug for treasure, but instead I enjoyed the flower’s sweet summer scent on winter’s frozen wind.