I have no talent for orchids. But some of my neighbors do.
Early mornings, I ride past them on my bike. I hardly see anyone around here in the summer, so I don't really know who lives where. But I know their orchids.
I love their mix of Walt Disney and Willy Wonka and David Lynch, too bright, too cheerful, too much. They work with our white-hot sunlight and the kind of humidity that makes it feel like you could reach out and grab a handful of air. They always look to me like they're sticking their tongues out, laughing behind our backs. They stand up to us, growing the way they chose to, insinuating themselves into the trees, busting out of their little slatted boxes.
Love me, don't love me, they seem to say. I bloom when I'm ready.