When we inherited our yard it was sprinkled happily with a drought resistant and prolific soft pink flowered annual, pretty little things with lots of green leaves and pert yellow triple-stamens. At some point in my life I decided that most pink flowers don't smell, and always have thought that of these pink flowers. So, as my darling daughter picked one while lounging on her plastic future-vehicle last dusk, and then went to smell it, I looked down and said "Oh, those pink flowers don't have a smell Darling".
"Yes they do smell." she whispered, and handed me the blossom, which had a most divine fragrance. Never too late to discover this type of thing, so packed with delight and simplicity. Right when I'm reading a book on using flower essences for transformation too, my aromatic allies rippling through summer, breathing life into the almost dead, cutting out old wormy wood, communing with the water spirits at dawn with goony grins. I take the form of a lion-man, massive mane, my tail whips, now that's living.