day after day

The rose bushes were brown, with bits of green hope at random. They were the only signs of floral work and... they needed some work.

Watering pitchers were filled and regularly poured on the hopeless shrubs. An attempt gloveless, and then a returned trip with gloves and scissors, came later as the dead stems fell away to reveal much more green than had been seen before.

And then again. Day after day. Watering, trimming, tending.

Until one day, as if over night, the bushes started blooming and wouldn't stop. Hope was not lost and beauty came somewhere in the midst of consistency, thorn attacked fingers, and prayer.