Sitting on the train crossing the Hackensack River, I saw the blooming swamp rose mallows. It is midsummer. The swamp mallows demurely laced up the edges of the marshes with their pink flowers. Still, one notices them, just for not being green.
Their flowers, seemingly so little from afar, are large and attractive. Bolder than hibiscus, swamp rose mallows often remind me of cotton roses which bloom around the time of my birthday. Herbaceous, they never grow tall enough to compete with the reeds surrounding them. But they are strong enough to survive on wetlands and sandy beaches.
This year, with the drastically reduced human activities in and around their habitat, the rose mallows seem to have expanded their territories. Each one of them also seems to be more productive, making the best effort to cheer up their audiences.
Very soon, their pink smiley faces will fade away. Quietly, they will bear fruits and be ready to propagate.[1] Their human admirers will have to wait till the next summer for another happy meeting.
