Having settled on a title now, then what about the meaning. I'm happy to announce that it's a straightforward one today — the joy of seeing this bloom so late in the season, of feeling that it's a slap in the face to subfreezing overnights and brisk western breezes.
And yes, it brings back the long ago memory of a walled garden and its promise of warmth. But it is also a joy in and of itself.
This year's rose, no doubt fueled by a wet spring and moderate summer, has supplied me with blossoms from May to December. I've taken a rose to my just-born granddaughter and her mother in late October and could have given one to my November 30th-birthday daughter, had I the ability to ship it across the country. But that, alas, is beyond my power.
One thing I know about these roses is how delicate they are, how fragile to the touch. They, like so much else in life, are better off the less they are disturbed.