There are wild roses bushes here. They spiratically dot the side of the roads. Daisies, dandelions, and poppies are also common knowns that line the dirt streets. But the wild rose bushes are truly among the finest flowers. Small, dainty, and a bit fragil. Yet they withstand the strong Siberian winds that make their way across the Bering Sea to my home. Curled in their own tiny pink manner, I fall in lust with the sight of them. The sign of a secret admirer. A wild rose with the intent of hidden love. I've never plucked one, for fear of jynxing my own chance at a secret fairytale. Instead I admire from afar, somewhat like the message they tell when left on a stranger's doorstep.
