Each year we wait to see the last rose of summer. This small ritual is a way to ease the transition from the bounty of summer — and some of its excesses, like rain, heat or mosquitoes — to the more spare seasons of fall and winter when many things feel less abundant, more interior, less expansive. Noting the last rose of summer both lets us hold on to the beauty and bounty, and reminds us of what may come with a new season. Some years we have been surprised by blossoms deep into fall. One year we cut roses for the Thanksgiving table.

This year was a bit different. For the first time in five years we were in California for Thanksgiving, visiting our daughter and her family including three of our grands. The last time we did this we were waiting for baby Leo to be born — now a robust five year old. This year there were roses happily blooming in her yard and all around the neighborhood. We spent one morning at a nearby park with many dozens of rose plants in bloom. We strolled among the flowers stopping to read the labels of especially beautiful flowers.

To my surprise, a large plaque dated 1937 (which suggests this park was constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps, one of the innovations Roosevelt established to create jobs during the Great Depression) presented a quote from poet John Masefield:

Roses are beauty but I never see

Those blood drops from the burning heart of June

Glowing like thought upon the living tree

Without a pity that they die so soon.

What an odd, mixed sentiment in such a beautiful place, yet it captures well the human dilemma. Once we are aware of the sad, the tragic, the mystery of life and its counterpart, death, we are changed and cannot easily see the bright without noticing the dark.

In truth, it’s been a bit difficult to think about roses this year. The roses were hard hit by the early frosts this spring; still, they surprisingly recovered and went on to bloom heartily. But the orchards and farms nearby lost all their peaches and many other fruit crops. While the roses loved the over-abundant water this year, farms all around us were ruined by the saturation of record amounts of water mid-summer.

Five years ago we were shocked to witness the effects of the Paradise fires while we were in California. We spent much of our visit adding caulking and closing up leaky windows to keep the smoke from entering the house. We literally couldn’t see houses across the street. We counted ourselves lucky to live in western Massachusetts where the fires have not been so ubiquitous. This year, however, we all had to stay indoors in New England for days when smoke from the raging Canadian fires found its way to our skies. Not so far away after all.

If the climate crisis were not enough to keep us distracted and anxious, our national politics continue to devolve into a hateful discord. As toxic as the smoke from wildfires, the ugly language and behavior particularly of the House of Representatives and certain candidates for the Republican nomination for president, offer a poisonous stew that has nothing to do with keeping our government running well and taking care of our citizens or our planet. Deprived of oxygen, our national discourse has choked.

The war in Ukraine pounds on threatening international stability and rule of law, leaving us poised for a dangerous domino effect in all of Europe. The terrible assault on Israel and the terrible consequences of its reaction leaves the Middle East in crisis.

How, amidst all this death and destruction, and abdication of responsibility by supposed leaders, do we find roses? A bluebird catches my eye, accepting our invitation to the feeder and, as ever, bringing a smile. Just there, a squirrel performs an astonishing acrobatic fling to reach the super-abundant pine cones this year. Another smile. I notice just beyond, the buds forming for next year’s rhododendrons. A grandkid’s question brings a laugh. A partner’s smile is a fine placeholder for roses. A friend’s wave adds a lift. The goldfinch is winter pale right now, but still bright in flight. Like bulbs underground, we gather strength where we may, preparing to rise and strive. The last rose of summer is not just a farewell but a promise.

Judy Wagner lives in Northfield.