Remembering last year's moonflowers, I spent one morning waiting for the morning glories to open by the back fence. As it turns out, morning glories do not unfurl like a belly dancer's skirt, they shiver themselves awake bit by bit for about an hour and then flop open, exhausted.
Until then, however, they form blue stars that grow larger and looser.
Early in the season, the front vines filled their space with blooms and it looked like the wind was blowing a kind of verse to the sky on the open lyre of the fan trellis.
When then wind rises, as it has today, they dance.
And although I spent the morning the morning in the park, fascinated by the vines that formed elf hollows of the log piles and small trees and by the creak of a pair of pines, one toppled against the other and both thin and shifting against the sky, it this image of the edge of the sky from the shore of a morning glory by which I am ultimately enchanted.
