There are dark tulips in the garden. I have taken to traipsing around the garden at night, when the porch lights dim & leave me rooting & rifling my hands through sweet peas, the remnants of last summer's seeds. The cats which scattered in late summer are beginning to roll out across the wood benches. I never see them at night, though I sometimes hear their rustlings in the afternoon.
These humble pods are beginning to unsnap velvet torenias (wishbone flowers). I'd like to tear, crush and roll the texture of flowers in my palm. Violets worked best in my youth, the surface both large and silk, soft and slick. Though unpictured, my budding moonflowers are my true pride & glory. I've started peering into my own window to chart their progress, the poisonous dears.