Passion came in late September when, during a visit to the family farm, I beheld the stunning beauty of Mom’s purple morning glories (a.k.a. common morning glories; Ipomoea purpurea), each displaying the deepest hues of my favorite color, each flower alight from inside as though fire burned deep within their bosoms.  What fantastic showiness.  What marvelous plumage for such an ordinary vine.

Yet rich aubergine blossoms collecting morning sunlight fails to describe the scene in its entirety, for another color was present, a color painted lightly on wings flitting from bloom to bloom.  Dashing and daring aerial acrobats joined this vision of eggplant and green, their feathery wisps of pale-deep yellow darting through the photographs like sulfur specters intent on haunting every image captured.

First one, then two, and eventually four of these fluttering suns joined the fray.  I could scarcely contain my captivation with their skimming from petal to petal, their brief stays at each source of nourishment, and all with nary a concern for my presence, my desire to snap a picture or two of them as they, like me, enjoyed the splendor of these morning glories.

I became lost watching butterflies land on flowers, quickly delve deep into the heart of each bloom, suckle briefly, then fly away in search of another place to eat.  Even as I tried to get an image or two of respectable quality, they in turn carried on with the business of the day without giving me more than a second glance.

[I found the butterflies rather difficult to photograph, the reasons being twofold: (1) they moved rapidly about sans any care for my efforts, and (2) the morning glories provided effective cover given the strategic contrast of insect light against plant dark, both in morning sunlight shining equally on one and the other; the butterflies are probably cloudless sulphurs (Phoebis sennae), although they could be orange-barred sulphurs (Phoebis philea), not to mention several other species with too many similarities to tell apart]

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.