In a tiny nutty shell

It grows in the garden under the shade of its own leaves. Like a balloon squeezed tight at one end, I am afraid its squishy innards might explode over its dirt-lined home. Its casing is a hard diluted butter-yellow, but I cannot smell it. A fuzzy green stem arches off its top nod and snakes through the web of vines. Curly cues twizzle into the air. The soft bristles are painful and lodge in my fingers when I stroke the vine. The dirt and leaves, wet from rain, open their pores up to my nose and the garden comes alive.