How to Plant Roses from Cuttings: The Art of Creating New Life from Old Wood

I've killed more rose cuttings than I care to admit. There was that summer of 2019 when I tried to root thirty-seven cuttings from my grandmother's heirloom Damask rose, and exactly two survived. But those two? They're now the most vigorous plants in my garden, and every June when they bloom, I swear I can smell my grandmother's perfume in their petals.

The thing about propagating roses from cuttings is that it feels like cheating nature—in the best possible way. You're essentially convincing a piece of wood that it wants to become an entire plant. It's both ridiculously simple and maddeningly complex, which is probably why rose propagation has captivated gardeners since the ancient Persians first started cultivating these thorny beauties.

The Science Behind the Magic (Or Why Your Stick Decides to Grow Roots)

When you cut a piece of rose stem, you're creating what botanists call a "wound response." The plant, in its desperate attempt to survive, redirects its energy to form callus tissue at the cut end. This callus tissue is where the magic happens—it's essentially stem cells for plants, capable of differentiating into roots, shoots, or whatever the cutting needs to survive.

But here's what most gardening books won't tell you: roses are drama queens. They need just the right amount of moisture (but not too much), warmth (but not heat), and time (but not forever). I once had a neighbor who insisted on misting her cuttings every four hours like they were premature infants in an incubator. They all rotted. Meanwhile, I forgot about a cutting I'd stuck in a pot behind the shed, and three months later, it had roots like underground spaghetti.

Timing Is Everything (Except When It Isn't)

Traditional wisdom says to take softwood cuttings in late spring or hardwood cuttings in fall. I've found this advice to be about as reliable as weather forecasts—useful as a general guideline but not gospel. My most successful propagation happened in August during a heat wave, which breaks every rule in the book.

That said, there's logic to the traditional timing. Softwood cuttings taken in late spring contain high levels of growth hormones and root readily but require more babysitting. Hardwood cuttings taken in fall are tougher, more patient, and can handle neglect better than a cast-iron plant. They're like the difference between raising a puppy and adopting an older dog—both can work, but they require different approaches.

Choosing Your Victims (I Mean, Parent Plants)

Not all roses are created equal when it comes to propagation. Some varieties root as easily as sticking a pencil in soil, while others will fight you every step of the way. In my experience, old garden roses, rugosas, and many shrub roses practically beg to be propagated. Hybrid teas? They're the divas of the rose world—beautiful but demanding.

Look for healthy, disease-free growth. I learned this the hard way when I tried to propagate from a plant with black spot. The cuttings rooted beautifully, then promptly developed the same disease and died. It was like watching a slow-motion genetic tragedy unfold in miniature.

The best cutting material comes from stems that have just finished flowering. You want wood that's not too young (it'll wilt) and not too old (it'll sit there like a stubborn stick). The Goldilocks zone is a stem about as thick as a pencil, with that perfect balance of flexibility and firmness.

The Actual Cutting Process (Where Sharp Knives Meet Good Intentions)

Here's where I'm going to contradict half the internet: the angle of your cut doesn't matter nearly as much as everyone claims. I've made straight cuts, angled cuts, and once (accidentally) a jagged cut when my secateurs slipped. They all rooted. What matters is that your cut is clean and your tools are sharp. Crushing the stem tissue is like trying to perform surgery with a butter knife—technically possible but unnecessarily cruel.

I make my cuttings about 6-8 inches long, though I've successfully rooted everything from 4-inch stubs to foot-long wands. Remove the lower leaves, but here's a tip that took me years to learn: leave more leaves than you think you should. Yes, they might wilt a bit, but those leaves are solar panels powering the rooting process. I used to strip my cuttings nearly naked, wondering why they took forever to root. Turns out, I was essentially asking them to grow roots while starving.

The Rooting Medium Debate (Soil vs. Water vs. Everything Else)

I've rooted roses in potting soil, sand, perlite, water, and once, memorably, in a forgotten coffee cup filled with rainwater. They all worked, which tells you something about roses' will to live. But some methods are definitely easier than others.

My go-to mix is now embarrassingly simple: half perlite, half peat moss (or coir if you're environmentally conscious). It holds moisture without becoming waterlogged, which is the sweet spot for root development. I've watched people spend fortunes on specialized rooting media when a bag of perlite from the hardware store works just as well.

Water rooting is seductive because you can watch the roots develop, but here's the catch: water roots are different from soil roots. They're brittle, adapted to a liquid environment, and often struggle when transplanted to soil. It's like teaching someone to swim in a pool then throwing them in the ocean—technically the same skill, but the environment matters.

The Hormone Question (To Dip or Not to Dip)

Rooting hormone is like training wheels for propagation—helpful but not essential. I've had cuttings root beautifully without it, and I've had hormone-dipped cuttings sit there for months doing absolutely nothing. The dirty secret is that many easy-to-root varieties don't need it at all.

If you do use rooting hormone, less is more. I once watched someone dunk their cutting like they were coating a corn dog at the state fair. The cutting didn't root—it just sat there, presumably overwhelmed by hormones like a teenager at prom. A light dip or brush is all you need. Think of it as seasoning, not sauce.

Creating the Perfect Nursery (Your Cuttings' First Home)

This is where most people go wrong. They either create a desert (too dry) or a swamp (too wet). Your cuttings need humidity around the leaves but not waterlogged roots. It's a delicate balance that makes me understand why professional propagators get paid well.

I use clear plastic bags or old water bottles cut in half as mini greenhouses. The key is to create humidity without creating a fungal paradise. I learned to poke a few holes in the plastic after losing an entire batch to what looked like a science experiment gone wrong. Air circulation matters more than most books admit.

Temperature is another variable that nobody talks about enough. Roses like their feet warm and their heads cool. I've had the best success placing cuttings on top of the refrigerator (warm from the motor) near a north window (bright but cool light). It sounds ridiculous, but it works.

The Waiting Game (Patience, Young Grasshopper)

This is the hardest part. You'll want to check your cuttings daily, maybe hourly. You'll be tempted to tug on them to see if they've rooted. Don't. Every time you disturb them, you're potentially damaging delicate new roots that are thinner than thread.

Most roses will show signs of rooting in 4-6 weeks, but I've had cuttings take three months. The first sign is usually new growth at the tips, though I've had cuttings root while their tops were dying back. Roses are contrary like that. They'll often fake you out with new leaves before they have any roots at all, running on stored energy like a car running on fumes.

The Graduation Ceremony (Potting Up Your Success Stories)

When you see roots through the drainage holes or new growth that doesn't wilt, it's time to pot up. This is another critical moment where many cuttings meet their doom. The transition from high humidity to normal air is like asking someone to go from a sauna to a freezer.

I gradually acclimate my cuttings over a week, opening the plastic bag a little more each day. It's tedious, but it beats watching your successfully rooted cutting collapse like a failed soufflé. When potting up, resist the urge to plant them in huge pots. A 4-inch pot is plenty for a new cutting. Roses like their roots a bit cramped—it encourages blooming over vegetative growth.

The First Year (Tough Love for Baby Roses)

Here's where I differ from conventional wisdom: I let my new roses bloom in their first year. Every book says to remove buds to encourage root growth, but I've found that a cutting allowed to bloom once often grows more vigorously afterward. It's like they need to remember what they're supposed to do.

That said, I'm ruthless about removing spent blooms and weak growth. These baby plants need to focus their energy on establishing a strong root system, not on producing hips or supporting spindly growth. Think of it as pruning with purpose rather than letting nature take its course.

Why Bother? (The Philosophy of Plant Propagation)

In an age when you can buy a rose bush for less than the cost of a fancy coffee, why bother with cuttings? For me, it's about connection. Every rose I've grown from a cutting carries a story—the climber from my first apartment, the floribunda from my mother's garden, the mystery rose from that abandoned house I passed on my walks.

There's something profound about creating life from what would otherwise be pruning waste. It's recycling at its most fundamental level, turning garden debris into future beauty. Plus, there's the sheer satisfaction of succeeding at something that seems like it shouldn't work. A piece of stem, some dirt, and patience somehow equals an entire plant. If that's not magic, I don't know what is.

Final Thoughts from the Trenches

After years of propagating roses, I've learned that success has less to do with following exact procedures and more to do with paying attention. Every cutting will teach you something if you're willing to learn. Some will root despite your worst efforts; others will fail despite your best care. That's gardening—equal parts science, art, and humility.

My advice? Start with cuttings from roses that are already thriving in your area. They're already adapted to your climate and soil, which gives you a head start. Take more cuttings than you think you need—if you want one new plant, take five cuttings. And most importantly, don't get discouraged by failures. Even professional propagators have success rates well below 100%.

Remember that cutting I forgot behind the shed? It's now a massive climber that covers an entire fence. Every summer, when it blooms, I'm reminded that sometimes the best gardening happens when we get out of nature's way. So take your cuttings, give them reasonable care, and let them teach you what they need. You might be surprised by what grows.

Authoritative Sources:

Cairns, Thomas, ed. Modern Roses 12: The Comprehensive List of Roses in Cultivation or of Historical or Botanical Importance. American Rose Society, 2007.

Dirr, Michael A., and Charles W. Heuser Jr. The Reference Manual of Woody Plant Propagation: From Seed to Tissue Culture. 2nd ed., Timber Press, 2006.

Hartmann, Hudson T., et al. Hartmann and Kester's Plant Propagation: Principles and Practices. 8th ed., Prentice Hall, 2011.

Osborne, Robert. Hardy Roses: An Organic Guide to Growing Frost- and Disease-Resistant Varieties. Storey Publishing, 2001.

Phillips, Roger, and Martyn Rix. The Ultimate Guide to Roses. Macmillan, 2004.

Reddell, Rayford Clayton. The Rose Bible. Chronicle Books, 2000.

Scanniello, Stephen, and Tania Bayard. Climbing Roses. Prentice Hall Gardening, 1994.