I search the roadsides for flowers, increasingly obsessed with the intricate inside parts, the colours and shapes of the petals. It's the weeds that fill the ditches, infestation of beautiful confetti colours, suffusion of perfumes.

Fields, fields, swaying and shining blonde rhythms. Purple loosestrife, gorgeous spires of purple hellion. I hate to pull you out. I know I should, you invade and corrupt and upset the balance, but you're so beautiful.

You're no good for me, you beautiful. I've let myself be drawn into you, knowing full well that I should never have envied your radial symmetry. Now I must decide: Do I cultivate you in secret (your sweet nectar and your intense magenta dyes) or do I kneel and gently pull each root from the loamy earth? I can already feel the roots constricting around my fingers... holding on... needing me like the soil... pulling me up in the neon phloem and .... the blue sky above, purple pinpricks below.