At the corner of Newark and 36th streets I see a boy of 13 half turn from the honeysuckle vines caught in the act and looking it. Mouth full of flowers he flees. I stop to pick a whole bouquet to take to an ancient lady in the nearby nursing home. She never gets out now. She pounces on the flowers with anxious talons, lifts them awkwardly to her nose, then picks one skinny yellow-white blossom, nips the trumpet end, sips the nectar and, petals dangling from her lips, looks up at me and beams.