If I had endless subject matter (which I do) I wouldn’t have to write twice in one week about roses. But roses are on my mind right now. On my mind — and in my sight.

As I write, the petals are oh so softly falling off the New Dawn Climbing rose. It budded slowly this year in the cold spring, then burst quickly into blossom. Night before last it shimmered in the little porch lights, a fairy garden.

I chose this plant from a garden catalog shortly after we moved to this house. I wanted an English cottage garden, and climbing roses would be part of it.

They are the only part of it that survived. Virginia does not have a cool, rainy climate. Astilbe and larkspur don’t flourish here.

But the New Dawn has thrived. It clambers over the pergola, hangs heavy over the glass-topped table.

It is a gracious nod toward projects past, a hopeful sign of projects future.