Yellow dust was dropping from the lime trees, and wild roses grew on the trunks of the apple trees. Pale red, gorged red, fiery, aching, harsh as anger, sweet as drugs.
And you’ve forgotten one thing about your precious roses, Ralph—they’ve got nasty, hooky thorns!
Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress?
In the early heat, the roses in the garden smelled like strawberry jam.