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IT WAS the last day of June. People milled about in 7th Street, Melville.
The Fête de la Musique was in progress. It was a warm day, just right for Jasmine. And there she was, ready to be plucked. Take me, she cried.
My friend waved the sprig under my nose, and I swooned, right there in 4th Avenue. The car guards caught me as my eyelids blinked. My heart thumped. Oh, that heady, sultry fragrance. It promises spring, soaring sap. Buds, beauty. Yes, it’s only the first week of July but I’ve already got Jasmine wafting around my bedroom in her dainty little dress.
She’s starting to billow on the trellises at home; her frills (called flowers) swell, and ready to release their perfume. Just like that. She’s got some competition, though. Soon there’ll be other, fresher blossoms winking for attention. They’ll be perkier, perhaps even more colourful – they’ll all have their special attraction, their unique prettiness.
Like my cimbidiums, my orchids. Or the Christmas Cactus.
When those two show their true colours, I know Jasmine will come knocking soon.
That’s what I like about flowers, and plants. There’s one for every season, for every dream. Even one for wandering around Melville. That’s when you realise the music you hear is the song in your heart.