Instant ivy on our balcony; fleeting flora; colorless and sad one might think, but precious to me, as if it were Gilberte herself forming the shadow, promising the happiness of the possibility that she was already at the park waiting to say to me, “Let’s play tag; you’re on my team;” an illusion of plants softer and warmer than even moss would be; a perennial needing only sunlight to blossom in the heart of winter.
