You routinely bloom near the solstice. In my yard. Close by. You are no hothouse variety. Your heady scent has an undertone of rot to it. Despite its concentrated perfumed fragrance that has me stuffing blossoms in pockets and in nooks and crannies throughout the house it carries that smell of something going by but not yet gone by. Of summer being the receding of light. Of summers' harvest rushing forward frantically before it's too late. Yup, all that on a lovely morning in June the day before solstice.