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  • There's just a moment, when we step aside from the bruised heart of world.

    Just a momentary pause, when we alight like bee eyes, on the passion.

    A moment when the purple rays envelop us in a kind of a hope, in the garden. We are the infill for the unfallen things it has been given us to tender. We may bid on them, but they will never do our bidding. (This, every gardener knows.)

    But, sometimes, on occasion, on a certain Thursday afternoon, in those mid-afternoon windy days when the humidity begins to soften and the cold breezes promised for overnight begin to move in among the ruination of tulips, the fragmentation of squirrel bites, the patience of the vine-laden...just that odd moment unplanned when Eden is tiny, all things tony and on-trend melt, and you just wander out of your kitchen window to the quiet fluorescence, of yes, why not call it that, your private patch of Eden, the garden, and the mauves and lilacs (and the background fill-in of tall lilacs swaying) of the clematis open their mauve mouths, and there in full are-you-talking-to-me is one hell of a passion flower.

    Hello, Passion.

    Hi there, yourself.

    And well, who doesn't want a snap of the passing Genesis, perhaps the third day, or the fifth, but in every hurt, there is that unasked for Thursday opening.

    Goddamn it, how dare you be so pretty.

    (Photo of passion flower by Susan, in the garden, May 23, 2013)
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