PETERSEN: Vermont Chapter

If plants could be hunters the wild rose bush would be among the fiercest.  Its strategy follows no code of chivalry or ethics.  It gives no warning of its attack and sneaks upon its helpless foe under disguise.  The spider-like tendrils of the fiendish plant arch through the sky to attack from above while her creeping tenticles slyly weave through the ground’s fauna to pounce from beneath.  The only offense to the devil is a pair of hedge clippers, gleaming with that bright hope of knightly armor.  Snapping at each reaching branch the clippers threaten the thorny bush.  However, even at the mercy of the heroic clippers the wicked wild rose fights back to the very end.  With each crushing snap, a long and dangerous extention remains to discard.  Even before its prickly skin reaches the ground, the rose is grasping, clinging to every last earthly thing, desparate but fighting.  Once defeated and lying shamefully on the earth, she has still not given up, for with even the lightest step in her direction the spiny thorns pierce the sole of the champion’s shoe; driving deeper and closer to the tender flesh with ever confident step. The wild rose lancets are snipped into small pieces and bagged in paper where they wait quietly, patiently, until let loose. 

A humble gardener collecting mulch for his blossoming tomatoes receives a bitter prick on his finger, the fierce hunter has drawn blood and now may sleep.

The rose is a dangerous woman, a Scarlet in disguise as Dumas’ “Milady.” She lures with her gentle scent and her delicate flowers but will eat the head of those who draw near as a mantis eats the head of her lover.

Perhaps now you have an idea of what I had the pleasure of experienceing yesterday as I tried cleaning up the yard.