I don’t have to put on rose-colored glasses to see pink. Outside my peonies have burst, and inside, chilled rosé waits in the fridge. I was never a fan of the color pink growing up. When you’re a redhead, you’re dressed head to toe in green. Or blue. But pink would grow on me, so to speak, in the garden. From the palest blush sweetheart roses against ou…
© 2024 Anne Byrn
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