This jasmine vine blooms over a bridge.  The bridge spans a dried up ravine full of stones, weeds and rubbish.  Does it ever fill with water, I wonder?  In my home I have a pot with exactly the same plant.  Rarely, it puts out a tiny white flower.  On those days as soon as I wake up I can smell the scent of that one flower.

It is quite cold here at night now, almost dipping to freezing point.  I wonder if the threat of frost makes this plant so prolific.  My plant that is coddled and brought into the house in early autumn for fear of killing it off is a prima donna.  Of course, I’m very happy to have the few precious blooms, but I wonder if it’s not a little complacent with its safe, beloved status.

Writing is like that.  As soon as I step into the fear zone, it gets better.  Oh, botany turned into philosophy.