I have faith the white roses will bloom tomorrow. They’ll burst open headlong like Judas in the field and spill themselves remorseful upon the summer day. By the way, I believe Judas will be in heaven. I mean the man was just following his lines, the script mastered so many years ago. The only thing to thwart our roseworks display would be a betrayal by some neighborhood punk on a dare who walks into the garden after dark to nip their confession in the buds.