From a puny brown oval shell shoots two, and two with carved edges. In anticipation of a higher day, given from mother nature. Twelve weeks past in culminating redolence, verging to obnoxious, as sap oozes from cola pockets of sticky crystallized emeralds. Trichomes glint as light passes over thick stalks ready to snap under dripping, bulbous flowers, staked upright to support our sanity. Moving amongst the woozy plants is magic to another day, for kids who dreamed of mirages melted away. So we snip, hang, and burn in a cure, of fantasy’s lost in a haze.