I'd not like to be looking at orange, the colour of fire, but Cotyledon orbiculata speaks suggestively,
now in these nights where lavender clouds drift across a broad baby-blue sky.
I have caught a cocoon in my flowering gum. Wedged on its branch, with a web of fibres holding it in place, I'm hoping there'll be some magnificent butterfly.
The flowering gum quoted is on the left, and will have champagne-pink flowers soon. The sky looks tenderly gentle, but beware, for tomorrow it will break the ground beneath it with its pounding insistence.
Until then, I bear the candle-flames of this succulent as if they were nursing me.
My woofer shares a similar opinion. She says, Faisal, we'd like to get out of here, wouldn't we?
Not everything has been scratched in this thing called life. I do not believe in scratches, any more than I believe in the dead deadening. We're keeping much alive.
We are bending. We all must bend. And in our bending, there is flowering.
Isn't it gorgeous, this black Aeonium? It's in the front garden, under she-oaks, toughing it out.
It's been a peculiarly kind day, with cool breezes. We are missing, yet, some rain. It will come. The blueness above lets me out of a problem: sooner or later the thinness will fatten, and all the silver and the orange will be overwhelmed by wetness, streaming, I hope, into the life of a ground now derelict, burnt, beyond struggling.