The garden in front of our home is graced by many rose bushes. My Beloved lovingly planted them many years ago and I now nurture them. Gorgeous yellow blossoms explode from a whole row of them. They vibrantly glow in the warm sunlight, petals quivering with delight from the caresses of a gentle breeze. Oddly, in the middle of one of them is a branch of deep crimson blooms. The sight is visually jarring yet beautiful. Of all the rose bushes, my eyes are most drawn to it. I often feel like one of the crimson blooms among all of the radiant yellow ones. Not better, nor worse, more beautiful or less, just different, yet the same.