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Blowsy climbers, hitched to brick, to fenceline. They bloom, then stick there for months. Undelicate, unhybrid, the neighborhood cats get a lovely latrine under their leaves, beetles and aphids are too good for these downmarket shufflers, and the shock of fertilizer would probably kill them through insult. They don't need my neighbor, don't need me; they would grow despite us, to spite us, hang with the roaches after the nuclear blitz: pure life-force unheeding of possessive modifiers, these careless snarls who know no one, not even the earth, can own their thorns. posted by Reen |link| 0 comments |