roses roses all the way

roses, roses all the way
but
unlike the Browning poem
no "myrtle mixed in my path like mad"

merely the nice chap at Central Market Flowers
calling out to me in passing last week
that he had a lovely pile of rose petals
and was sure i could find a use for them

i'd always liked the thought of being showered with rose petals
- this is as close as i am likely to get -
so smiled broadly and accepted the pile with glee

the fragrance was heavenly
and i enjoyed it for a few days
while pondering what to do with them

i had a little white book, made in Dorothy Caldwell's class
- the intent was that it should have marked pages
&
that it was to be stitched/woven together with coloured threads

my eyes don't work well with colour
i find white much more restful
so i was a little naughty and quietly bent the instructions

which meant i had a lovely blank/blanc book
awaiting play

warning : the fragrance of semi-dried rose petals is utterly intoxicating

the wee book was bound, gagged and submerged

under the close supervision of Johnnie

who likes to drape himself along the masonry

that backs our wood-burning stove

this was good
because i didn't want the pot to boil
and
we all know
a watched pot NEVER boils

and then i went to bed

this morning i opened my present

a rose-scented dorothybook
just for me