There is a rose bush in my garden. If you walk onto my porch, through my house, out the back door, past the fire pit, and beyond the wild garden, you will find it next to the wood shed. It dances when it blossoms, its huge thorny stems bobbing and weaving in the air, the heavy fragrant blooms dipping and leaping. Such a thing simply must have (at least) rhymes written about it, perhaps even poems and music.
Now see a glimpse of my Dancing Rose Bush painting as it is partially completed, with plate palettes and tubes of paint strewn about . . .