I ate a camellia tonight. 

Soft petals of pink encased pure white beans, liquified just enough to feel their original shape dissolve against the tongue.  I closed my eyes and ate, breathing in the scent and sensing the texture.  Mr. "Bridge Entrance" said, "You are really tasting it now aren't you?"

The word for this variety of pink camellia, sazanka, brought to mind a song, taught to me by the lady next to me:

kakineno        the hedge
kakineno        the hedge
magari kado        turn around the corner

takibita        the fire
takibita        the fire
ochibata        of fallen leaves
atarouka        won't you warm up?
atarouyo        let's warm up

kitakaze        the north wind
piibuu         piibuu
fuiteiru        blowing

sazanka        camellia
sazanka        camellia
saitamichi        blossoming path

takibita        the fire
takibita        the fire
ochibata        of fallen leaves
atarouka        won't you warm up?
atarouyo        let's warm up

shimoyake        frost bitten
otete ga        hands
mou kayoui        are already itchy

With the talk of frost bitten hands from washing every day in icy water and the sound of the wind blowing down a cold road, I could really feel the warmth of the room.   We were not burning leaves, just drinking tea; but I could imagine a pile of leaves before us, smoldering away, warming out tired bodies.