My beautiful Vincent-Villafranca-sculpted World Fantasy Award trophy arrived today, all the way from Salt Lake City.
Here it is in a hammock of jasmine, which having long ago roped shut the front gate and recently reached the top of the tallest tree in the front yard, is now busily lassoing the neighbouring trees and has sent out a single flowering trailer to climb the dead staghorn-supporting trunk (dead-staghorn supporting?) in the lavender patch.
It smells divine and can only attributed to me in that I have had absolutely no interaction with it except to occasionally fight a five-strand cable of vines lashed around the mailbox.
The lavender, although deliberately planted by my last housemate, Aimee, is similarly the beneficiary of benign neglect, varying between vertical potpourri and a hot-spot for lazy bees.
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