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From year to year, and day to day, entirely different. The wild, random nature is part of their nature. It is, perhaps, their charm. The flowers are each, individual, a statement of purpose, a testament to eons of change and evolution, ever sure of their path, blind though it may be. But towards what? That defined purpose simply explodes in a riotous, abandoned display of life by chance. Or not chance? Is that one glorious moment the whole point of the exercise?

I do wonder if that white gladiolus is surviving out in the big garden this year, rather than in the vegetable garden of last year….