Purple is my favorite color. I hold within me a desire for it that no other hue can satisfy, a thirst to drink from its fiery lips at every opportunity.
Imagine the heartfelt glee I experienced after arriving at the family farm around ten in the morning when last I visited, after which Mom immediately drew my attention to a bouquet of natural passion.
Purple morning glories (a.k.a. common morning glories; Ipomoea purpurea) twined about a wiry tower built just for them. Their vines lush and their flowers painted with the deepest, velvety finish of satin, I immediately fell under their spell.
Already they had begun their final act, one of succumbing to the sun’s incessant rays. All too soon they would wither and die, flowers whose totality had been spent in one morning. But even then the next day’s offering could be seen preparing to emerge.
As though lit from inside with the light of a thousand sunsets, brightness washed against breathtaking violet petals brushed with divinity. I stood in awe.