Pippa Waters the Skyvine — Every morning before the glass roof warmed, Pippa filled her tin can at the moss pump and watered only the low pots. Drip, glug, drip—the sound stayed safely by her toes. Read the full story →
Every morning before the glass roof warmed, Pippa filled her tin can at the moss pump and watered only the low pots. Drip, glug, drip—the sound stayed safely by her toes. She had set herself a tiny challenge: one day she would water the skyvine bud that curled above the fern rail, where the floor turned see-through and the city buzzed far below.
Then one bright morning, the skyvine bud wriggled higher, thirsty and tight as a green fist. Because of that, Pippa climbed onto the first iron step; because of that, a gust smelling of rain and chimney smoke swung the vine away from her can. “Hold still, please!” she squeaked, but her knees knocked like seedpods. The butterflies rose in a fluttering cloud, and their wings made a soft paper-rush around her horns.
At last Pippa hooked one leafy arm around the rail, leaned just a little farther, and tipped the can. Water sparkled over the bud. It burst into a blue bell-flower so loudly the roof bees rang with it. Next time you spot the curling vine, see if you can find the brave drip that began by her toes.
