Every thorn has its rose

And every so often, on a thorny hedge where nothing appeared except a cynical old slug... a rose opens its eyes and sighs at the door of the night that...

yeah well. You ge the idea.

Today, two of my fellow residents went for a walk. On my way to the library, I saw these two young men --one moroccan and the other japanese-- come stepping up the gently rising hill, their faces lit by the still bright evening sun that shines over Portland, roses in their hands. They stopped, with time looking over its shoulder and smiling in their eyes, spoke with me, and then I came here.

A yellow rose bud lies here before this dell keyboard, and I wonder at what it means to be a grown up and a man or a woman in this world.

In morocco they get angry if you pick the flowers.

But just this once, here, its ok.