Lined up there, those clay pots weren’t but a breath from each other. Each one its own miniature riot of color: white, pink, red. Practically vibrating with exuberance, in that late afternoon summer light caught somewhere between the ripest lemon and the tartest lime that squeezes my heart leaving just the echo of an ache. Sitting up there at the top of the fence–the top of the fence!–pleased as punch. On a platform built special for them. Imagine building such a thing without the fear that they’d fall. Trusting them to be. Maybe I should trust that much.