Botanicus splendiferousii

My friend Paul and I put our heads down and pushed into the wind, like lake cutters slicing through ice; it was a drop in temperature from previous days, and went through flesh to bone.  Living here in what is known as a snow belt, it was hardly noticeable to us except that it whipped the small flakes into  stinging punctuations.

We had fiddled about with what to do on a Saturday, landing on the decision to explore the Botanical Gardens, especially since the poinsettia displays were on exhibit.  We both love plants, but my apartment is kept nursing home hot, even though I rarely turn on the steam register; it dries out plants and causes them to resist blooming.  I have bequeathed all my orchids to Paul, whose home has a semi-clerestory window that allows the necessary cold to set spikes and blossoms.  She and her husband maintain their house at a more reasonable temperature than my overwarm apartment; if the older people see a window open you get yelled at, for management will then turn down the heating plant, the boilers run by oil.  The cats and fish have no complaints, and I don't either, truly.  I've been cold before, and this is a minor heaven.

But as soon as we gained the double doors, the flush of humidity and damp soil pulled us into the world of palms and cycads, ferns and banana plants.  And poinsettias, which, I understand, are trees in the southwest; here, trying to keep one alive beyond the season has yet to happen in spite of my following whatever directions given.  My cookie-baking neighbor, Concetta, had one that was going on six years; fat, lush, and exuberantly red.  "You keep inna dark.  See?"  Sure, I can do that; what went wrong is still unknown, but this floracide had to stop, I decided.

So I visit the more ticklish plants at gardens and friend's homes.  Outside, I can grow darn near anything; inside, it's a contest between me and Fate.  But the indoor botany of the immense glass house is enchanting, uplifting; just think of all those plants pumping out oxygen.

There are shapes seen only in fifties science fiction films, coloration and a continuous plunge of growth; there are seven different biospheres of seven different climates, and each has adaptive greenery that has learned through millennium what is required to survive.  After the entryway, which was stuffed with red and green and every variation between, you are led into the rainforest which has an immense koi pond.  Shallow, you can see the beasts as they glide and feed, tails tipping above the surface, wagging like happy dogs.  A vine with cloud blue blossoms spangles through the ferns and bird of paradise flowers; snow outside?  You wouldn't know it.  A waterfall sprays and splashes, adding more to the freshening humidity which is not thick, but cooler.  This is contrasted with the next climate, for a wall of heat hits you in the face just as if you just walked into a restaurant kitchen.

It is the xerosphere, where cactus and succulents abide, most dangerously.  Don't be fooled by fuzzy appearing outgrowths and spines; most have hooks at the ends that will snag into your human flesh.  You might as well stick your hand into a barrel of fiberglass insulation.  Now these are some weird shapes, designed to protect the plant, conserve moisture, and maximize any gathering of rain by having it run down the furrows of growth, down to the roots.  Fascinating, ancient.  Falling on one of the agave plants would send you to hell on a blue green crucifix, the thorny points are that sharp.

We trot through the carnivorous plants and ivies, and into the seasonal display room where a large red velvet throne will hold Santa amid a carnival display of more poinsettias.  Paul and I take a few photos and head through begonias and into the orchid room.  There is one with tiny flowers throwing off a honeyed fragrance, sweet and telling of exotic realms in another corner of the world.  If I could wake up anywhere tomorrow morning, it would be where these flowers exhale; however that would probably be a sky-high tree branch as orchids are epiphytes.  They don't need soil, just something to hang onto.  Still.

We round through the Florida swamp area, dotted with Spanish moss and plastic alligators, with a well-engineered aquarium of gigantic size containing gars and other smaller fish.  Papyrus and waterplants sprout up through the surrounding display, also filled with water and duckweed.  It leads out to the main lobby, where the lemon tree has blossomed, and the date palm is dropping fruit.  We take a final look at the explosions of green, and head out to the greying world, for it is late wintry afternoon, and the sun is descending without fanfare or brilliant farewell.   The chill once again bites at us, snapping at our cheeks with insolence.

Paul has brought me art books that her husband, an art teacher at a private school, is disposing of to make more room for his students.  I take them upstairs and sit with a hot chocolate, perusing what is what.  The green vibrations still reverberate, the voices of plants sigh within.

The dark comes so early, don't feel badly if you don't get much done; we are designed to slow down in winter, at least at this latitude.   Nothing like sitting on the couch with a book and a cup of something or a glass of either; the work week is coming with its own business and time will compress into boxes of hours.  Dream above time, above the fiery stars where the galaxies never end and therefore the corporeality of clocks does.  I am there, I shall watch over you.  Sleep well.