It's a riot out there

Every morning I primp -- not myself, heaven knows, but the face the house gives to the street.

Pluck yesterday's hibiscus, now shriveled (this morning there were 15). Pull fallen sapodilla leaves out of the plumbago. Trim seed pods from the yellow elder. Gather aralia leaves and stems that have dropped into the ferns. Check the dwarf plumeria for rust. Snip errant stems from the night jasmine. Saw off dying palm fronds or emerging seed pods. Cull browning foliage from the oleander and the Clarks' weird and wonderful tropicals behind them. Nip here, tuck there. . . .

Keeping up appearances takes all of about 15 minutes, during which my coffee has had a chance to cool to less than scalding and the detritus has gone into a paper bag on the corner of the porch, to be composted, and after which the sun is welcome to emerge in earnest to light up the stage set.

At least once a day I see people stop and take a picture. (My little zen office is on the floor of the loft, looking out the high window, so I see them and they don't see me.) If I'm on the porch, they usually say a nice word about the house, or ask the name of those blue things (they're the plumbagos) or just give a thumbs-up and a wave and grin and go on their way.

I think the plants must be soaking up the love.