More flesh than flora, the dancing whimsey of #6 morphs into a firm tongue in painting #7, reminding me of a carnal episode years ago. I was at the St. Louis Botanical Garden when an alarming creaking began to echo through the tropical house of the Buckminister Fuller geodesic dome. The noise was from a majestic date palm towering above me: its woody husk that held the fruit was prying open. As a piece of the covering tore away and the fallout landed at my feet, I backed up and others began running in a mild panic. I watched as the pod’s cord of connected dates sprung from its confines. More husk broke loose, a spurt of white foam sprayed through the air and floated slowly to the ground. As if after an explosion, the newborn date stem waved in the silent aftermath.