Pick a flower

Being the first in our adventures through the jar of random buds that we’ve received from friends;

&, wherein, we visit the Orange Grove.

• Composed on

“Choose one,” I said to Her. I was listing to port on the couch, conspiratorially unscrewing an old plastic jar and proffering it as I came to a lean on her shoulder.

“Oh my godddd…” Her gaze was excitedly apprehensive. We were about to go off-trail in unknown terrain. Even so, her thumb and forefinger had immediately formed a readily open beak.

consciousness transpo.

Having picked out the stem, I ground the rest & filled the electronic vaporizer's little stainless oven. Inserted it into the water pipe ... ... ... ... ...Electrons and trichomes. Digital vapor

We are in the Orange Grove.

We are in the Orange Grove.

We are in the Orange Grove.

We are in the Orange Grove.

We are in the Orange Grove.

We are in the Orange Grove.

There are other beings in the Orange Grove. Gossamer & crystalline, sparrow-sized dragonflies float oddly

on the air around us; neither the flit of their wings nor their rate of travel appear sufficient to be keeping

them aloft. Also moving, with purpose, through the air are small masses of diffuse light in mutating pastels

and regions of dense vapor billowing almost imperceptibly. Insect, light, and myst alike impart an

unmistakable sense of compassionate, cooperative consciousness.

The little hand-bird pecked, coming up out of the jar with a big, hairy, peach-like cola tip. Fractalized plantstuff like something out of Annihilation.

We are feeling warm, humid zephyrs and sensing

the sweet, musky aromas of the natural forest. I'm describing to Her that we are in an idyllic,

naturally irregular grove of venerable and stately orange trees. The continuous canopy is profoundly high

overhead. It is a magical blanket the essential and luminous green of life, that filters sunlight into a gentle,

sumptuous balm.

Between all the trees and their companions abound the creeping lives of the forest's carpet. Expanses

of plush mosses, perfect for a rest; dense spreads of thymes in beams of liminal sunlight; moist

grottoes, moss agate, where dewdrops hang perpetually from bell-shaped flowers that are

another color.

Her voice points out to me: pumpkins are growing here: at once I notice how, clustered around the base

of many of the ancient orange trees, frothy little explosions of pumpkin patch burst from the glowing seam

where the tree meets the ground. Rich green tendrils bear pregnant orange gourds in small clusters.

With that flower

Shall we ever again find our way to

the Orange Grove?

now one with the air

We'll have to see: