Heritage

Gray skies and rain, the earthy aroma of damp soil, compost and dripping foliage, the astringency of little green tomatoes on the vine, green peppers, hot peppers, corn, gourds and beans of every shape and color.

Out of the fertile gloom of the garden behind the little blue house in the village, there rises a single radiant David Austin rose this morning, one called simply "Heritage". It is pale and lavishly cupped with a golden heart, perfectly shaped and divinely fragrant.

Not even a summer monsoon can eclipse its splendor, and all the perfumes of Araby cannot compete.