Nobody, not even the rain -

Portrait of a glorious framboise-pistache Saint-Honoré.

Oh, how I wish I was a ballerina.

Of intense fragility.

But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Today. The same blossoms are enfolded by a whimsical springsnow.

Turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
I watch the roses of the day grow deep.
- E. E. Cummings