Dear Fellow Admirers of Diane Porter: Doncha just love her for words such as this: "I climbed down the ditch beside the road and pushed through tall weeds to get to the goldenrods. On unbranched, rigid stems, they came up to my chest." Somehow, knowing that she's "not a spring chicken," (And how on earth did this comparison evolve?)...the image of her down in the ditch, chest-high in pure gold, appeals and impresses me immensely. Kudos to you, fellow-wildflower-gatherer, Diane! :<)) Sue