The blossom spread on the vine, the stretching bare tendrils one year and sweet pink petals the next.
The blossom opens as if each flower was a book - a book that was more sculpted than written, the ink infusing into the petals to give them their soft glow. It is a tale of eons passed, of the loving care of the soils, the rain and the sun, a tale of the insects, the soil bacteria and fungi. And yet, for all of that, it is a great love story told in its silent way, the brain reading such volumes in an instant of intuition, a fraction of a beautiful moment.
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