These roses were cut from my garden today. There is something lovely about late season blooms. They look like they had to struggle to appear. Even on their very first day, they are somehow weaker and more fragile than their early season predecessors who unfurled firmly and in full color confidence. These late bloomers fall open as if gasping, having made it just in time to see another day. They make me happy and sad. Happy because they assure me that a handful of warm sunny days lie ahead, and sad that it is only a handful.