“Almost EasterShaking bone mealfrom my bare handsinto the rose bedwhere only one bush grows,I feel as if I’m scatteringmy father’s ashesall over again.This month marksthe seventh yearmy father has lainin my garden,his ashes in my handsstill as palpableas bone meal or thorns.Easter Sunday,I will hide an eggbehind his ear.Jesus will call down to himto get up and play.He won’t.But the rose bushthat is turning green,this rose will sink its rootsa little deeper in the earthand in a few monthsdrop its petalslike so many red tears.— Felicia Mitchell”

“A rocker rose like Poseidon and flexed his knuckles.”

“Rose:i love youDoctor:Quite right, and i guess if it's my last chance to say it... Rose Tyler...(the doctor fades, him in his TARDIS, with tear tracks and a tear running down his cheek)”

“The words of the rose to the rose floated up in his mind: “No gardener has died, comma, within rosaceous memory.” He sang a little song, he drank his bottle of stout, he dashed away a tear, he made himself comfortable. So it goes in the world.”

“I haven't much time to be fond of anything ... but when I have a moment's fondness to bestow, most times ... the roses get it. I began my life among them in my father's nursery garden, and I shall end my life among them, if I can. Yes. One of these days (please God) I shall retire from catching thieves, and try my hand at growing roses.”

“My throat tightened when I noticed a small tattoo of an origami rose on his upper arm. . . "Hey, Lenzi," he whispered, barely louder than the surf."Rose," I said as our lips met. "My name is Rose.”

“I don't want to. Believe me. But I can't help it. Rose said in time, I'll learn the control to keep his feelings out, but I can't do it now. And he has so much, Sydney. So much feeling. He feels everything so strongly— love, grief, anger. His emotions are up and down, all over the place. What happened between him and Rose . . . it tears him apart.”