The bottlebrush, so tempting in the afternoon sun-glow. Lean out, just a little, over rail, on tiptoe, don’t look down, cold hand into sun, warm tingle; this is feeling.
Fingers, arm, toes, calves, back, reach-stretch. Eyes drop, momentarily, instant vertigo rush; this is feeling.
Palm touches sun-kissed leaves, they are soft-spiky and warm. Sun reddened stamens elude [...]

I bought them, for myself.
To brighten, my house.
To colour, my day.
They did.
And still I find them, with me.
Beautiful, even as they rot.