Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades. ~ Boris Pasternak
I like the imagining of “the sweet pea that has run wild.” If left untamed, they do spread amazingly fast, curling their little tendrils around everything. And soon, pink blossoms appear in the most unexpected places. Often like bits of phrases, words that warm your tongue like a good wine.