I took this before I left the crisp May spring of Philadelphia for the enveloping heat of Bejuco. It is only here that I feel warm, calm and untethered, but back to those tulips that displayed early morning drops of dew. I love the tulips when they are tightly holding onto their inner secrets, closed in on themselves before the flop of petals and the exposure of pistols make them unwieldy and unbalanced. When I left, three of my special tulips were just beginning their journey, and I was really sad to miss their unfolding in "peaches and cream," a color that always beckons with its indistinguishable shouts of pink and orange and yellow, all muted by whatever gives it that vague creamy sense. I love watching those three tulips, always later than any other spring flowers, always a reminder that at any minute a really scorching day could send them over the edge and end the magnificent cycle of their opening. And now I just wonder if anybody is watching, waiting and sighing over the majesty of the color as it changes with the morning's white light and the afternoon's golden glow. Every time I leave, I feel regret, sadness, for whatever I am missing, but I feel that same way whenever I leave Bejuco. It is too bad that I am not enormous and capable of straddling two places so that I could peek down on each to see what is in bloom, what needs tending, who needs hugs, who wants company, and how Shadow is faring. 
