Lost in a crowd of thorns and stings, a rose pined for the sun. Last year I chopped the competition down: the sweet pink flowers hurled open unshadowed petals in clear day. I plucked blooms at leisure then, with red and white beads of blood and stung weals striping my arms. This year the path I hacked is grown in, but the stems of rose still reach higher. Before I can really work out why, here I am, diving through the nettles and the brambles, pulling secateurs from my pocket, snipping every stem I can reach, armfuls of fragrant pink, the hooked spikes catching in my sleeves. This bounty is brought to my new, unprepared kitchen, a selection of mugs and old bottles stand in for vases. As each flower drops, the petals are stuffed in a teapot for fresh rose tea. Only the buds are left now, snakelike heads: Medusa’s wedding hair. I’m thinking I might dry them, preserve some rose tea for winter time. Then I will sit in the short day, laughing at the impetuous dive. If I wanted to, I could worry over the fate of my rescued beauty; or, I can let it go, knowing I brought some freedom to it, and that was the limit of my influence, whether I chortle or weep.