There’s copious comfort in iteration, obviously, stringently chiseled in time but not so much location dependent, allowing us to guide into the now what has been long gone, but overlapping, soothing, stripped of all fringes too sharp to sustain.
The purple and its vibrantly contrasting red, the fierce tenderness with which it recalcitrantes the threat of autumnal downpour, flaunting even more fragile when storms are ahead: this is the high season of reaping whatever’s been sowed, emotionally as well physically and its taste is just a blithering bonus.
For me, seeing the first three flowers of this year’s saffron appear, which someone once taught me happens on the third real rainy day in September, equals such an undergo, even though the sixty bulbs we planted last year will never amount to the harvest we tended to fear when we were helping out a former friend on her picture perfect plantation, some uproarious years ago.
