Shards of a lost afternoon trap you alone in the garden. Slowly you bend to touch the larkspur, invent a fragrance for delphinium. Here the years breathe through wisteria... And tears remember noiselessly... But what's this? - A wet petal becoming vatic? Just in time the smell of engine oil upon your fingers muffles the flower's voice, foils the prophetic. Escaping gender, you run from the garden quickly now to mount your 450 c.c. Hondamatic! * * Honda motorbike with automatic transmission.