Introduction to The Rose That Waits
There are always a few roses that seem reluctant to surrender to the season. While most of the garden begins to retreat towards winter, two of mine still hold their blooms, though both are beginning to show the wear of the year. They are not the bright, full roses of summer, but there is something quietly beautiful in the way they continue to flower.
I found myself walking among the beds, gathering what the garden had left for me — seeds, rose hips, and the last remnants of the season — while preparing the plants for the months ahead. It is a simple kind of work, but one that makes you aware of how little control we really have over the turning of the seasons. We cannot ask autumn to wait or persuade winter to stay away. We can only tend what is in our care, prepare what must rest, and leave the rest to its own season.
Perhaps that is what caught me as I walked among those last roses. Their flowering was coming to an end, but it did not feel like an ending. There was something quieter in it — a waiting, a resting, and a promise held beneath the soil.
And so, The Rose That Waits began.
The Rose That Waits
The light leans low, thin and honey-pale —
soft as mist on the distant vale —
ní fada, ní fada till the dark draws near,
but still the rose holds summer here.
Two stand tall when others have bowed,
blooming late, gentle and proud —
not bright, not showy, not as they were,
just breathing sweet, and tender, and there.
They wear their bloom like a worn warm shawl,
frayed at edges, still standing tall —
drink the last glow, breathe the cooling air,
feel the quiet hour drawing near.
I walk the beds where green turns brown,
gather the seed, the hip, the crown —
tuck warmth in where the roots go deep,
for the long soft hush of winter sleep.
Fanann siad, fanann siad — they wait, they stay,
rooted deep in the quiet clay —
the rose does not truly fade or go,
she only rests, to learn to grow.
I leave them be, with gentle hand,
speak soft to the quiet land —
sleep well now, my own, my dear,
the light we keep will hold you near.
Bóithrín, bóithrín carry it through —
what loves deeply never leaves you.
We let the leaves fall, let the season run,
and trust the promise beneath the sun.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
Kings Quote:
The season does not stay at the gate and wait; it comes with its own rules and carries us through the months ahead.
Thank You for joining me on this journey of writing and discovery. Poetry, for me, is a continuous learning process. A way of finding my own voice and writing style and exploring the beauty of words.
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Pat Fitzgerald
