Yesterday I picked out a cone of stephanotis seeds, a perfect fibonacci sequence of overlapping seeds. The thick seed case, about the size and shape of a mango, had dried, fading into a yellowish green and split open. The cone is held together by nothing but geometry and soon startd to slip apart revealing the cypselas - their tales tightly packed like skeins of crimped silk, slowly releasing into hemispheres of thousands of thousands of fine filaments. This image is from a series watching the seeds unfurl.
The title borrows and corrupts a line from Muriel Stuart's poem The Seed Shop.