Roses

I took two quilts off the bed and I can forget about feeding the wood stove. It's hot outside and the northwesterly wind that usually feels cold is now refreshing. I feed off the long hours of daylight like a caterpillar on a leaf.
What is the simple life? If it's defined by a washing machine and running water than I don't have it.
I bought three miniature roses when they were marked down to 2.00 each at Walmart five or six years ago. They came looking dead but after I planted them they came to life and became these shrubby, little blooming bushes that furiously dance and cackle amongst themselves. Of course they never let me see them. It's all done behind my back and when I turn to look at them they are standing still but I hear their smothered giggle's. Have I arrived at middle age carefree from the expectations of other's only to be convinced that my roses are talking? "The quieter you become the more you can hear." Ram Dass
Sent from my iPhone