Children police force

Welcome to another edition of plant-a-rama, ding dong song.

You visited a wonderful nursery on the edge of town past exotic car factories and fields filled with gleaming metal. Every car on the road is a used car.

Guided by a young pale well seeded and seasoned botanist girl you selected roses, ferns, bamboo, lemon trees, wild camellias, climbing vines, hysteria, wistfulleria and assorted green. Where the roots whisper below the surface of apprenticeships and ocean liners.

So it happened one day when the crows were calling after sunrise, he opened the blinds. Riding the blinds is a phrase, a cryptic description of railroad life, hopping a freight out of town. Ain't nothin' but da blues.

Light streamed across a room to the pink and red veined orchid in a brushed silver container. Tibetan incense curled into light. Red gladioli, so glad, petaled their beginning. Piano Etudes by Glass. A handful of dust labeled fear gathered to celebrate in the light.

The piano fell silent. Violins picked up the slack hemming their garments, idling at intersections along life's loom.

In the "new" world order all the police are children. They know how the world word woks work.